


Be kind

by PersuadedMeIntoIt



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersuadedMeIntoIt/pseuds/PersuadedMeIntoIt
Summary: Someone was knocking at my door and – without waiting for my reply – opened it.“There you are, Anne. I was looking for you at the staff meeting, but I couldn’t find you. Here, I want you to meet my brother. Frederick, this is Anne, the wonderful social worker I have told you about. Anne, this is my brother Frederick. He will be working with us for the coming twelve months for the sports project.”Twelve months.Fuck.
Relationships: Admiral Croft/Sophia Croft, Anne Elliot/Frederick Wentworth
Comments: 81
Kudos: 89





	1. Anne (Part I)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fandom :) This story is obviously based on Persuasion – I do not own the characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, no copyright infringement intended. All mistakes are mine as my story is not beta read. 
> 
> This is a modern AU and I took a lot of liberties with the plot. So be warned if you are a Persuasion traditionalist and rather like the original plot ;)
> 
> I would love to know what you think of this, as this is my first fic on AO3. 
> 
> There will be occasional trigger warnings if necessary, though - except for mental health issues such as anxiety- none of the topics will be explicitly discussed. 
> 
> Rated for language and innuendo
> 
> Chapter 1: Trigger warning for a brief mention of domestic abuse.

The lights of the streetlamps flash by, one by one. I have long lost count of how many there were. It takes thirty minutes to drive from the hospital to my cottage. The last half hour has been among the tensest of my entire life - and yet, I don’t want the drive to end.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Frederick at the steering wheel. He is staring straight ahead, always on the road, not looking at me, his hands in a vice-like grip on the wheel. He asked for my address before we left and hasn’t spoken a word with me since. Not that I have been any better. We have somehow managed to be in each other’s presence for the past months, just barely. But never alone. Never. Except now.

Looking at him hurts. Being alone with him hurts. Speaking to him about anything right here, right now – I am so confused and I can’t string together anything comparable to a coherent sentence. My mind keeps going in circles, like a broken record, always stopping at the same place, not being able to move on. How did this happen? How are we, how are the two of us together in a car? Why is he driving me home? Why did I agree?

The streetlamps keep on flashing and I don’t have an answer.

Three years ago, I started my job as a school social worker at a primary school. I love my job. The kids are wonderful - taking care of them, dedicating my time and energy to them is the most rewarding thing to me on this planet. As a social worker, I can work with them in a way nobody else in the school can. We are facing life together, me and the kids, and together we take up all the obstacles that need to be tackled. I have poured my entire being into this job and I have been rewarded richly.

The kids trust me, with small things and sometimes with incredibly big things. They come to me with all sorts of problems and challenges. Together we will drink some tea in my office and make plans on how to address whatever life has thrown in their way. Sometimes they just need someone to confide in, someone who will listen unconditionally. Sometimes they will need a little bit of chocolate and a warm cup of tea. Sometimes they need someone to look at them sternly and ask them to apologize to their friends or family.

And sometimes a small child stands in my office, shaking like a leaf, being full of fear, and my heart breaks because there is nothing I can do to help. Parents, siblings, or friends dying is nothing that can ever be kissed better or disappears when eating a bar of chocolate.

The black-blue bruises some of them show me, very hesitantly and after a long time of relationship building, are an altogether different matter, but no less alarming. Conducting the subsequent intervention that is needed, - and doing it fast and safe - is also part of my job, and sometimes I and the team from the youth service succeed and sometimes we don’t. Those are among the most terrifying days of my job.

But I try, every day I try and give my best and I would choose this job over and over again because every moment with the children is worth it.

Even though I don’t have any direct colleagues (one school usually only needs one social worker), I fancy myself being well-liked by almost all the teachers. Jenny Smith, one of the English teachers, is a particular favourite of mine. Sophie Croft – she is teaching mathematics – is also a wonderful person and we get along very well. And yet, she is the reason for my current predicament. Thinking back, I wonder how I could have missed something so obvious. The family resemblance stared me right in my face for three years and I did not notice it (I mean, she is even living in my old house, for heaven’s sake). Until six months ago.

We were having a staff meeting; the new sports project was to be discussed. Following the initiative of the minister of education, our school wanted to implement a pilot project that – if successful – would serve as a countrywide model for other schools as well. The summer holidays were to serve as a period of preparation so that everything could start smoothly with the beginning of the new term.

Sophie Croft was especially enthusiastic about this. After all, it was through the connection of her brother – a recently retired Navy captain (and I still didn’t see it!) – with a former star football player, that our school got to be the first school where this kind of inclusive project was to be launched. The excitement in the room was palpable, as Sophie’s brother was to be there, together with his football friend, to present their ideas and lay out the tasks that needed to be completed before the project could officially begin.

I was late to the meeting because little Thomas had decided to give his best friend Ben a firm push when entering the classroom, which had ended in Ben needing stitches. Ben and I went to the school nurse together, and consequently, I was fifteen minutes late. I had found a place to sit right in the back, just as our principal was saying _“And now, please, give a very warm welcome to Frederick Wentworth and Howard Harville.”_.

I froze.

This couldn’t be.

And yet, there he was - I could clearly see his face from across the room, even though I was mercifully hidden behind all my colleagues.

My heart stopped beating.

It started beating again, frantically, just a moment after it had stopped, and my first instinct was to flee the room. After all, that is what humans do, is it not? Fight or flight, this has been our response to hazards of any kind from the very first day of humankind. And my body – and especially my soul – wanted to flee very much.

But I couldn’t. My legs would not obey the commands my brain was firing at them like a crazy maniac and so I had to sit there like a deer in the headlights and watch the love of my life, the one person I had sworn to never meet again, talk to my colleagues about a sports projects with the kids from our school.

Sometimes I try to recall what he actually said – or what Howard Harville said, for that matter- but it is all a blur in my memory. All I could do was stare at him and stare some more.

He had always been handsome. His Navy career had only added to that. Of course, if I am honest with myself, I knew that already. I have a Google Alert set for _“Frederick Wentworth Royal Navy”_ , ever since our breakup. He had talked so passionately about his dream of one day going to the Navy that it seemed only logical to look for him this way in this jungle that is the internet.

Usually, I got one or two result notifications per year and so was able to follow his career from afar. Even a dry press release is a welcome source of news if it’s 3 am in the morning and you are vehemently arguing with yourself that you are doing this because - well, you know, one never knows when some “general” knowledge about the Navy might come in handy.

Frederick had always radiated a special kind of restless energy. He was full of life and joy, driven by the desire to do things, move this world on its axis. And now, being in the same room with him, even when sitting farthest away from him, this energy hit me square in the face.

I couldn’t breathe.

And I still couldn’t leave.

Something that I had hidden away for almost a decade in a very deep and almost unknown corner of my soul broke free that day, and it brought forth all kinds of conflicting emotions.

I wonder how I made it through that meeting. The moment the principal announced, _“That’s all for today, have a great weekend”_ , I dashed for the door. I made it to my office without anyone asking why I was walking so fast and closed the door behind me very decisively.

Safe. He would surely not find me here.

Shaking from head to toe and trying to gulp down more air than my lungs could possibly take, I sat down and tried to take stock of my body. That’s what I always do with the kids and any adult who happens to need medical attention in my immediate vicinity (usually my sister Mary), so I decided to give it a try:

Step by step, Anne. Start at the top and work your way down. My head was hurting. My heart was still beating much too fast and I could feel the veins in my temples pulse with every beat. Now that I had sat down, my legs felt like jelly and I could not feel my hands. Well, it could have been worse. At least I was still conscious.

Calm, Anne, you need to be calm. Deep breaths, you got this. Count till four when breathing in, hold your breath for seven counts and then exhale for six counts.

Again, do it again. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Ex-

Someone was knocking at my door and – without waiting for my reply – opened it.

_“There you are, Anne. I was looking for you at the staff meeting, but I couldn’t find you. Here, I want you to meet my brother. Frederick, this is Anne, the wonderful social worker I have told you about. Anne, this is my brother Frederick. He will be working with us for the coming twelve months for the sports project.”_

Twelve months.

Fuck.


	2. Anne (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read). 
> 
> Have fun with the second chapter :)
> 
> Trigger warning for description of panic attack

_“Anne? Anne, are you alright?”_

I honestly couldn’t answer because I had looked at his face and then everything went black. 

Kudos to you Anne, I thought, for thinking that it could not get worse. Kudos to you. 

Fast forward six months, I am sitting in a car with Frederick Wentworth. In his car, to be precise. And for some reason I still can wrap my head around, he is driving me home. 

Waking up in my office that day after what must have been only a few seconds to the face of a very stressed looking Sophie Croft, I wanted to say something, anything, but I was tongue-tied. Frederick hovered somewhere in a corner until the paramedics arrived (someone must have called an ambulance). 

Then he gently took his sister by the elbow and said, _“Come, Sophie, this is clearly not the right time”._

I went home that day and tried to sleep. But sleeping is one of the things that has become increasingly difficult in the last six months. Other things have also become quite challenging, like walking around the schoolyard and the school building without holding my breath or spontaneously jumping behind a hedge to avoid being spotted by him. I am not kidding when I tell you that many hedges have an evil streak and delight in tearing your clothes apart when you are being stuck between their branches. 

But Sophie Croft was determined, and Frederick and I had one of the most awkward encounters of my life. I am an introvert – except when interacting with the kids - and consequently, socially awkward encounters are quite common with me, but this one was next level awkwardness. I have filed it away in the corner of my mind now labelled “ _To never look at, think or talk about again_ ”. That corner has become quite large since that initial _“introduction”_ arranged by Sophie. 

After that, we very slowly and painfully started to establish a fragile equilibrium. We are **polite** to each other. We greet each other **politely** and make very **polite** small talk. It is all so **polite** that it makes me want to vomit. 

Politeness was never what characterized our relationship.

Nobody would ever suspect that, about ten years ago, I would have done almost anything for this man. Scratch that, I would still do anything for him. Not that he knows that. At least I think he does not know it. Back then I was convinced that he would have done anything for me either.

But given the fact that I broke up with him, broke our engagement, I have no right whatsoever to his love and devotion. That ship has sailed long ago (oh the irony! Of course, I had to fall in love with the only man in a 100 miles radius who would then literally sail away from me) and I know now well enough how it feels to stand on the shore, waiting for it to return, while at the same time knowing that it is not to be. There was never anybody else for me and I have come to terms with the fact that most likely, there will never be anybody else for me. 

When I have a good day, I can think about our relationship, which lasted only six months, as a life-changing experience that has taught me so much about what it means to be an adult human being. I experienced love, joy, sadness, hate, anger, and despair in a very short time span, and it was a hard and valuable lesson. I pride myself that I have learned that lesson well and have drawn the appropriate consequences.

The main reason for our breakup was my family. It pains me still to think about it, so I will keep it short and just say that I was still very young (only 21) and very dependent on my family, and my godmother. At some point during my mid-twenties, I went to therapy and learned a lot about co-dependency and toxic relationships. Afterwards, I cut the ties with my father, my eldest sister, and my godmother and told them to only contact me again if they were willing to respect me as the person I am and act accordingly. Advise on my love life and pressure on who to choose as a partner range strongly in the category of _“None of your business”_ and thus, will not be tolerated by me. 

Suffice to say our relationships have been a bit strained since then (or non-existent, mostly). Nonetheless, I needed to do it and the distance from them has done my mental health and my life choices a lot of good. The therapy was also the reason why I quit my job at dad’s company and started my training to become a social worker. My charity work for the company of my father helped me to apply for the program and I passed with flying colours. After my graduation, I registered as a social worker and was hired for the county council of --- to work in my current school. 

My relationship with Frederick and our break-up was a major turning point in my life and without it, I would not have the job I love and be surrounded by people who respect me for who I am and what I do. And I am grateful for that.

When a bad day comes around, things are not that easy.

I notice a bad day usually right after waking up. Over the years, a strange feeling has manifested itself in my body, whenever I think of Frederick. It sits right beneath my ribcage, snuggling up to my solar plexus. It feels like someone is pulling, dragging my lungs down, sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe. It is painful and after a while the pains winds its way around my ribs, squeezing them, sometimes harshly and sometimes almost lovingly. It hurts and at the same time, it is a sweet kind of pain.

When I wake up with this feeling, I know it will be a long day and not a good one.

My number one remedy for those days is taking care of others. One of my teachers in my program told us _“Many people think that social workers are selfless individuals, sacrificing themselves for the good of others. And this is true, to a certain extent._

_However, what is also true is the fact that nothing helps you ignore your own problems or even your own entire life like taking care of the problems of others. Each one of you will reach that point in your career, sooner or later. Maybe once, maybe repeatedly. And when you are there – know that you have reached a dangerous level of commitment._

_No one survives this in the long run, and it is crucial that you learn to take a step back and take care of your life, of your own problems and challenges. You will pay bitterly if you do not.”_

With these words rummaging in the back of my mind, I will stay as long as possible at the school, working without break, taking extra care of the kids, go home and call my sister Mary or even visit her. Absorbing the pain of others keeps me from drowning in my own. I try to exhaust myself to a point where I can fall into bed at night without having thought a single minute about that sweet pain between my ribs. Being so tired that I can’t keep my eyes open anymore means that I fall asleep immediately and hopefully, the next day will be better. 

Needless to say, this feeling in my chest has rapidly increased ever since Frederick is back in my life and it has reached a level where the social worker in me (with limited medical knowledge, but better some than no knowledge) is sometimes worried whether I am about to have a heart attack. But then the irresponsible adult, that very small part of me, shoves that thought somewhere to the back of my mind and starts calling Mary. 

In the second and third months of Frederick's work at my school, I watched from afar as he started to flirt with one of the younger teachers, Louisa. While witnessing one of their interactions, the pain in between my ribs accelerated so fast to an excruciating level that I almost ran for the bathrooms, where I barely escaped a full-fledged panic attack. Sophie found me there and very patiently and kindly coaxed me out of my haze of panic and confusion. 

_“Anne, I am very worried about you. You have not been yourself for the past weeks. Is there anything you want to talk about?”_

I only just managed to force back the tears and reassured her with my heart in my throat that everything was absolutely and perfectly fine, that I didn’t know myself why this was happening, but that I was sure it would soon disappear, no need to worry.

Sophie was not convinced but, wonderful woman that she is, she let me be. 

These attacks of pain and panic ( _“Hon, you need to start calling them what they are. Panic. Attacks. See? Not that difficult.”_ – my inner social worker likes being sarcastic now and then) have become more common during the last months. But they lessened considerably in intensity and frequency when Frederick and Louisa stopped flirting and Louisa got engaged – quite surprisingly – to a friend of Fredericks, James Benwick. They are a very lovely couple and I am happy, truly happy for Louisa. She is a wonderful girl and I think I might even have forced myself to congratulate her if she had started a relationship with Frederick. 

But that is really quite hypothetical because honestly, I probably would have passed out while trying to think about how to phrase _“Congrats, you have managed to capture the heart of the one man I adore so much that my entire life still revolves around him, even though we managed to avoid each other for almost a decade”_ in a socially acceptable manner. 

You might have come to the same conclusion as me – my love for Frederick, at least my love in its current shape - is not doing me any good. Having panic attacks and constantly telling everybody around you just how fine you are, while not being able to sleep or eat properly is not okay. Something needs to change. 

( _“Or you will pay bitterly”_ ).

One month ago, William Elliot came to our school. He and his real estate company have decided to sponsor our sports project and therefore he regularly visits.

Unfortunately, his visits nearly always include a stop at my office and just today I have found out why. William is an acquaintance of my godmother, and somehow, she thought that the two of us would be just great together and would make a splendid couple. William let that slip offhandedly today during one of those weird talks we are apparently having now regularly while drinking coffee in my office. 

Well, he is usually talking, and I am listening. 

With this, my godmother has ventured so far into the _“None of your business”_ territory that I was speechless for a minute. Then the panic attack set in because clearly that is my current go-to reaction to any emotional upheaval and I helplessly watched as it neatly compressed all of my current emotions into one big ugly bubble of fear that crawled up my throat and started strangling me. The huge gulp of coffee I had taken into my mouth to devour it just a second before wasn’t helping either. 

William, of course, didn’t know what hit him, but luckily for him (I don’t know whether I should count myself lucky as well), Frederick was just walking past my office when William called for help. I was coughing and spitting and not getting enough air, and I think I might have started screaming at some point. 

I don’t remember much, as panic attacks tend to block out every function in your brain except for your ability to be terrified down to the last cell in your body. I do remember that Sophie came charging into the room, ordered William to leave immediately, and told Frederick to drive me to the hospital _“Do you hear me, Frederick, RIGHT NOW!”_. 

And to the hospital, we went. I managed to calm down a bit during the drive. Frederick, however, was anything but calm. His knuckles on the steering wheel were white, his eyes wide, and his driving more than a little questionable. But he managed to get us to the hospital quickly and after he explained at the A&E why we were there, a paramedic took me to a separate room.

My panic attack decided that being left alone with each other (me and the attack, that is) was not what we wanted and on some mad impulse I grabbed Frederick's hand and begged in a hoarse whisper, _“Don’t leave me, please”_. 

He came with me. And he sat with me, while I talked with the paramedic and, at some point, lost it completely. I remember that I could not, not for the life of me, let go of Frederick's hand. I must have squeezed it quite painfully, and that repeatedly, but I was beyond caring. 

The past six months had been hell for me and the reason for that was sitting next to me, holding my hand. It was too much to comprehend and my brain gave up. At the end of the meeting with the paramedic she gave me some medicine to sleep, an emergency medicine if such a heavy panic attack should reoccur, and a stern recommendation to go to therapy.

Well, lucky me, I guess, as I had already contacted my former therapist and asked for an appointment in the coming month. I was done with paying bitterly. 

I don’t recall how long we were at the hospital, but it must have been more than two hours and the February winter night had already set in. 

_“Where do you live?”_ Frederick asked me. 

I looked at him incomprehensibly. 

_“Your address, Anne?!”_

His jaw was set, the muscles in his neck straining from containing too much of… God knows what during the last hours. I stammered my address and Frederick told me to get in the car. 

So here we are. Driving through the night, stuck in our silence, together in a car, after the possibly worst day of my life (of course it couldn’t possibly be the worst day of my life, as that title is unrestrictedly reserved for the day I broke up with him. But today is a close second). 

Tension radiates from Frederick's body in huge waves and I try to make myself small in the passenger seat. At some point during the drive, I relive the feeling of his hand in mine, the safety that it had given me. The way it had felt right, like we had never let go of each other, no matter how cheesy that sounds. 

My cottage comes into view at the end of the road and I summon all my courage to say _“We are here. That’s my house, at the end of the road._ ”. 

Frederick nods and parks the car in front. He stops the engine.

Oh great, now we have awkwardness with an extra amount of silence.

I am staring right ahead and trying to think of something, anything to say. Nothing comes to my mind when suddenly he says, _“I texted Sophie earlier.”_

I look at him blankly. 

_“When you were… while… when that woman searched for the medication.”_

I nod. 

Fredericks jaw clenches and unclenches, he opens his mouth several times, just a bit, only to close it again. He clears his throat, and with a gruff voice continues _“She said. Sophie said that it would be good. …. It would be good if you were not alone tonight. She told me…”_

He closes his eyes and forces himself to complete the sentence _“She told me to stay with you. To make sure that you make it through the night, that is.”_. 

He almost whispers the last words and decidedly does not look at me. 

I register that his knuckles are still gripping the steering wheel too tightly. I don’t know how to respond but somehow my mouth starts forming words.

_“That is very kind of her, I suppose.”_ I have no idea why I whisper back. 

_“But I…. I … I couldn’t possibly accept that.”_

Breathe, Anne, breathe. Take a big breath in, just as much air as you can get, and slowly out. Don’t concentrate on the pain or the fear, concentrate on the air. But I can feel the fear bubble reforming in my stomach, stretching, reaching for my ribs, my heart.

_“I will be okay, and you have already…”_

Breathe, breathe, breathe! 

_“You have already sacrificed so much of your time today. I do not want to impose on you further.”_

Breathe. Four counts in. Hold. For Seven counts. Exhale. For six counts. In-

The fear bubble doesn’t care. It expands restlessly, starts crawling up my throat again. I am so busy with counting and also busy with very decisively not looking at Frederick, that I miss him studying me. 

_“You are not okay.”_

It sounds like an accusation, his voice hoarse. Maybe it is an accusation. 

_“Look at you, it is starting again, isn’t it?”_

Breathe. Deep breaths, Anne, you got this. 

_“Frederick, please…”_

_“WHAT please, Anne? God damn it, you had a massive panic attack today. Do you have any idea how scary it was to witness that? Do you have ANY IDEA ANNE, ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW HORRIBLE THAT WAS?”_

He is shouting now, looking at me with anger and fury and suddenly, I am calm again. I can breathe, deep breaths in and out and the ugly fear bubble is retreating, back into my stomach, between my ribs. Frederick doesn’t notice this; he keeps on shouting at me.

_“How long has this been going on? You told the paramedic it had happened only a couple of times but, looking at you, I can see that is not true. Ever since I saw you on that first day, I knew something was clearly not right. And don’t tell me I am wrong, because I am not, and you know it. Look at yourself! LOOK AT YOU! How can you do this to you? Not caring for yourself, ignoring your health to a degree that you need to go to the fucking hospital?! THE FUCKING HOSPITAL!”_

My head starts spinning again, just a bit. Because there is no way that he can be saying all these things. It sounds entirely too much like he cares like he takes an interest in me and that simply cannot be. It cannot, he has been cold and resentful and polite – POLITE to the fucking extreme – towards me for the past six months, there is no way he is saying this because he cares.

I realize that he is looking at me again, probably expecting some sort of reaction.

Deep breath in, Anne, I believe in you. Go ahead. Just say you're fine, no big effort, only that.

_“You can sleep in the guest room. There is an extra bed in there.”_

Well. That’s a surprise. Where did that sentence come from?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are suffering from mental illness of any kind or struggling with panic attacks - be kind to yourself and go see a doctor, a therapist or some other form of counselling (or talk to a trusted friend). Take care of yourself because mental illness is real and difficult (don't let anybody tell you it's not)


	3. Anne (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read). 
> 
> This is a short one - the next chapter will be longer and features a change in POV.

I see my own surprise mirrored in Frederick's face. He gulps, clears his throat, looks at me awkwardly, and jerkily nods.

After a beat, we both simultaneously reach for the door handles and get out.

I fumble for my keys in my bag and find them after what feels like an eternity of standing awkwardly in front of my cottage _._

You really need to expand your vocabulary, Anne, I chide myself in my thoughts. Using the word awkward repeatedly is… well, awkward.

We step inside my house and the next fifteen minutes are some of the most bizarre I have ever experienced. I show my ex-fiancé my home, the tiny house that has been a zone of comfort and respite for me ever since I moved in three years ago. The home I could have shared with him, had things been different. I show him everything he needs to know – the spare room with the bed, the bathroom, the kitchen. I rummage in some closet and manage to find bed linen and he takes them from me to prepare the bed. I watch him from the dark hallway when it suddenly hits me that we both need to go to work tomorrow.

Work.

Belatedly, I realize that my hands have started fidgeting nervously and I stammer something unintelligible into the darkness of the hallway.

_“What did you say?”_

Breathe, Anne.

_“I said: When do you need to be at work tomorrow? I usually start at 7.30 am and leave the house at 6.45, but I can drive myself and leave you a spare key if you would like to sleep longer and leave later in the morning.”_

He has stopped occupying himself with the bed linen and steps into the doorframe of the guest room, successfully interrupting my rambling. With only the small bedside lamp next to his bed sending scattered rays of light into the room, his face is now hidden mostly by the darkness of the hallway. It envelops both of us like velvet, mercifully hiding all the tension and awkwardness of the day.

_“Anne, tomorrow is Saturday. Go to bed.”_

I know that I am beyond tired and extremely exhausted, but I could have sworn there was tenderness in his voice as he said it.

_“Good night.”_

The door closes behind him.

_“Good night”_ I whisper to the darkness and slowly make my way back to my room.

I wake up with a profound sense of surrealness and disorientation. Opening my eyes is a huge effort and my head is pounding harshly as I try to adjust my gaze to my surroundings. Weird, disconnected images flash through my mind.

Me, screaming in my office. Feeling a fear so deep like I had scarcely felt before. Frederick, shouting at me in the car. Fredrick holding my hand. Frederick telling me to go to bed.

Frederick!

I sit up in a rush, regretting that action immediately as every cell in my body protests and I can feel blood rushing angrily through my veins. Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I am pretty sure I can smell coffee. However, given the fact that I am barely human currently, I cannot attest to that and file the thought away under _“To be investigated later”_.

As it turns out, there is no need for me to go investigating. When I come out of the bathroom, there is no denying that my tiny cottage is, in fact, smelling of coffee and I follow the smell into the kitchen. Fredrick is sitting at my kitchen window, a mug in his hand, reading something on his mobile phone.

I take a moment to look at him. Last night had not been a dream after all. I did have the most pathetic panic attack of the century because my godmother had – yet again – ventured to grace my life with her meddling on a subject I had explicitly told her to refrain from meddling with ever again; resulting in my ex-fiancé having to rescue me and stay with me for the entire evening as my confused and scared self from yesterday was too much of a coward to face the situation on its own.

Way to go, Anne, way to go.

Apparently, my thoughts were too loud – Frederick puts his mobile away and turns around to look at me.

_“Morning.”_

It is said quietly, in a low voice. My headache thanks him for his thoughtfulness, while his voice does all sorts of funny things to my heart and my stomach.

_“Hi.”_ I croak back. Evidently screaming an entire evening does no good for your voice.

_“I made coffee. If you want some.”_

_“Thanks.”_

I make a beeline to the coffee machine and start pouring myself a cup of the dark and bitter liquid. The steam rising from the cup manages to wake me up a bit more. My heart and stomach continue their funny dance, whereas my brain is frantically firing up all the available capacity to ask all kinds of uncomfortable and unanswerable questions _(“Can everybody please shut the fuck up, we are trying to focus here, okay? We can do this, trust me!”_ My inner social worker is disgustingly cheerful and motivated this morning. The rest of my brain doesn’t care.).

Before I can work myself into a state, however, Frederick's voice is ringing out from right behind me.

_“Anne? We need to talk.”_

I almost drop my cup of coffee. Almost.

Taking a deep breath, I turn and face him.


	4. Frederick (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, change in POV :) 
> 
> I still do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read).

There are dark circles under her eyes. Her skin has always been pale, but now the skin under her eyes seems so thin and frail that you can almost see through. 

Her right cheek is crumpled, I can detect where her face made contact with her pillow. Her hair is dishevelled, her clothes still a bit rumpled. Her bony fingers clutch the mug and I realize that she has lost quite a lot of weight.

She looks haggard. And scared.

Something in my chest contracts at the sight. I must quell the sudden impulse to wrap my arms around her, warm her with my body and stroke her hair, murmuring that it will be alright. Whatever is wrong will be alright.

But it won’t be alright, because I can’t do that and a small, selfish part of me doesn’t want to do that. This part of me feels a perverse kind of pleasure at seeing her so lost, so vulnerable and clearly struggling with some kind of mental issue. This part of me rejoices in the fact that Anne is in pain.

Just as I was because of her.

Before Anne broke up with me those ten years ago, I was unfamiliar with my capacity for pain. With my ability to feel pain to and beyond an extent I couldn’t even imagine.

I did not know yet how heart break literally feels like your heart breaking – the pain taking on so many different shapes, forms and intensities than you are forever and again lost as to how to react to it.

Pain can wound itself through your body, your soul, your mind, like a snake, striking again and again until you are in agony and are brought to your knees by the sheer brutal force of it. Then again, it can be a pulsating numbness, thrumming on a low level with the beat of your heart, reminding you with every pulse that somewhere inside you there is a deep gash, an ugly wound that is infected and refuses to heal.

The thrumming can turn into the background noise of your daily life, always there, subtly influencing everything you do. On other days, pain comes swiftly, suddenly, stabs you through your back and leaves just as suddenly. Pain is blazing hot and freezing cold; it is dull, bleak, insidious, numb, raw. It will find the most hidden places in your body and make you regret ever choosing to exist as a human being. 

Knowing Anne has made me know pain almost as intimately as I have known her.

I sometimes still wonder what it was with her, that this relationship and this breakup affected me so profoundly.

I was 23 at the time, and I had one serious relationship before, and I’ve had a few short ones afterwards (even though they ranged more in the category of “friends with benefits”). However, none of them could compare to my love for Anne, to what we had.

Somehow, I knew, when I met her, that this was to be the woman I would spend my life with. That she would be the one I wanted to grow old with (which is weird because I never believed in love at first sight or soulmates or stuff like that. Humans just don’t work like that in my opinion).

I have tried to explain it to my best mate Howard once – I was completely hammered at the time, so please excuse the poor metaphor – and I told him that Anne and I were made of the same fabric, that our bodies and souls were interweaved and we were, in fact, one being, not two separate people.

Each cell in my body was in tune with her and she just understood me, without a single word passing between us. I have never felt so safe and at home, even though I come from a very loving family and didn’t feel that I missed something in my life until I met Anne. And she ripped me to pieces when she tore the fabric of our relationship apart.

It had taken her only six months to make me believe that I could never live without her again.

But without her I lived. I had to. And somehow, I made it. I went to the Royal Navy and signed up as a midshipman and started my training as a marine engineer officer.

I had just completed my degree in engineering when I met Anne and going to sea had been a long-standing dream of mine. It only seemed logical to combine these two passions and work as an engineer on a ship.

I loved it. I still love it. The Navy has given me a sense of purpose, of rightness and like a dry sponge I soaked up everything there is to know about this life and my work there.

I signed up for every over-seas mission I could get my hands on, offered myself for every job that needed to be done and was soon promoted, until I received the rank of a captain two years ago. My fellow officers, my crew on my ship, they became as much my family as my sister Sophie and my parents, and they saved me from myself and the pain that sometimes threatened to incapacitate me.

With time, the pain grew duller. Less intense.

After my drunken confession to Howard he bullied me into talking with our mental health counsellor on board and that helped me more than I ever thought it would. Acknowledging that my pain consisted of many different emotions; recognizing that I was grieving the loss of the most important person in my life (only six fucking months!) and that I was wrathful because of the way that had happened – all of that helped to diminish the huge snake of pain in me to a thin line, that, just sometimes, slithers into my consciousness, to remind me that the once deep gash within my soul has healed, but is still weary of this world and the pain it can bring me.

The reason I am no longer on my ship are my parents.

They are getting old and when my father was diagnosed with colorectal cancer last year, I handed in my resignation and took the next flight to London Heathrow. I am still listed as a reserve captain, though. I like to keep my options open.

Back in the UK (back at home sounds like a lie. England is not my home anymore. My ship is, my crew is), I was uneasy, full of nervous energy. Staying on land does that to me. I feel restricted, condemned to be on one place, not being able to move whenever I want. I miss the sea, the endlessness of the ocean, its calming waves rocking me to sleep.

Being with my parents and looking after them while my dad received his cancer treatment (and survived, thank God) kept me busy enough for a while. But sooner, rather than later, both my parents were back at home and their thirty-something-year-old son a bit superfluous for their daily life.

They protested vehemently when I told them that I was thinking about going back to the Navy once dad had completely settled in again.

 _“Frederick”,_ my mum said, _“you have been so restless for almost a decade. Almost ten years, Frederick. What is it about being on land that you fear so much?”_

I told her that I did not fear anything on land, that being on land was fine, that nothing was the matter, and really everything was perfectly and absolutely fine, fine, FINE!

Nobody was convinced by my outburst, least of all my mother. Or myself, for that matter.

 _“Frederick”,_ and when she used that tone I knew I had to tell her, _“talk to me.”_

Very reluctantly and over the time span of a few weeks, she got a part of my history with Anne out of me.

_“What is it about being on land that you fear so much?”_

That question got stuck in my mind and kept on repeating itself, over and over again until I didn’t know what day and time it was or how my name was spelled correctly.

Overthinking has never been my strong suit and so I decided that I needed action. I needed to do something, anything, and maybe then this mess in my head that my mother created with her question would sort itself out.

Sophie and Howard came to my rescue. Of course, with Sophie being my sister and Howard being my best friend ever since I can remember, there are no two other people I’d rather be rescued by.

Howard is a unique person. Many people know him from his career in football, and I watched every game he played even if I had to leave the ship and walk miles on foot to find the necessary Wi-Fi connection. He is magnificent on the pitch, but he is even more brilliant as a person. His friendship means the world to me. Not even our very different career paths changed anything about that. Blokes can keep in touch, even when thousands of miles apart, if they want to.

I must admit, however, that a decisive factor in our continued communication was his sister Fanny, a nurse on board my ship, and her frequent trips home (I managed to avoid most of the opportunities of going back to the UK). She somehow served as a connection between our two worlds and to this day, Howard and I have a deep and meaningful friendship, also because of Fanny.

Fanny was another reason I came back to the UK.

She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer during her last visit at home, about the same time my dad received the bad news from his doctor.

Watching Fanny die was horrible. There are no words to describe the grief I could see in Howards face. His pain was a snake much like my own and I knew that Howard needed my support and I wanted to be there for him, every step of that cruel way.

Fanny had died almost six months ago when my sister Sophie visited me and Howard in his country mansion ( _being a former star football player has its benefits_ ) around Christmas. Christmas is a bitter time if you have just lost a loved one and so Howards wife and I were doing our best to keep him busy.

Sophie stopped by and was overflowing with this idea of a school sports project.

Apparently, the minister of education had just freed some funds for inclusivity - and how better to achieve this than through sports. Sophies eyes sparkled and flashed as she rolled out her plan in front of us – that Howard could work as a coach for the kids at her elementary school for the duration of the project, that all he had to do before was a six months course to familiarize himself with inclusive work, that I could come too _(“You do still work out, don’t you, Fred?”)_ and -after completing a similar course – I could also teach. That the kids would benefit so much if the two of us – especially Howard – would take over this project. Howard was the hero of so many of her little ones and if he would take over this responsibility, he could really make a difference in their lives.

The details and the nitty-gritty would need to be fleshed out, she added offhandedly, but _“Please, Howard, agree to this and you will not regret it! “_.

Well, it is very hard to say no to Sophie, once she has steamrolled over you…

I went home that night with my head brimming with information. Howard, however - I could see that Howard had caught fire. Working with children, teaching them – it meant to have a purpose. It meant to work on something truly meaningful and it meant to – at least for a little while – forget the gaping hole in his life that had once been his sister.

The following weeks were a blur, Sophie and Howard texting, writing e-mails to the ministry of education, drafting a concept for the project, and re-drafting it about a hundred-and-ten million times until the ministry was satisfied. Being in frequent company with both of them left me no choice, but to participate, and before I knew it, Howard and I had completed that course and were handed our certificate.

By that time, I was actually looking forward to the project. Hearing Sophie speak about _“her little ones”_ , about her school and colleagues with so much passion was contagious, and I could feel a kind of giddy anticipation building. I was impatient for the project to begin. The ministry of education gave us funds for a period of twelve months, and I was determined to make the most of it.

_“What do you fear, Frederick?”_

Oh, I wish I had known.


	5. Frederick (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)

During our many late-night conversations before the start of the project, Sophie repeatedly mentioned the competent and oh so lovely social worker of their school, how she was just the best with kids and how we should absolutely engage her to make the project a success. Howard enthusiastically agreed, just as he agreed to about almost everything Sophie suggested. I shrugged my shoulders in a _“go ahead if you think that’s a good idea”_ manner and so Sophie was determined to introduce us to her at the launching day of the project.

And this is the reason I am now standing in the kitchen of the most wonderful woman in the world, trying to understand why the hell I wanted to talk to her. Because even though the selfish part of me tries to find faults in her appearance, tries to belittle her and hate her, just to pacify the thin line of pain that has resurfaced very suddenly ever since we met on that first day, when she fainted in her office, - despite all of that, the larger part of me is captivated by her. By her beauty, by her existence, the quiet and determined loveliness she sends out into the world. And I know there is no way around this conversation.

After that first fateful encounter (Howard, of course, what not there to help me out of that mess. He and his wife have decided that while Howard is anyway dealing with children, they might as well start their own family, so he had to rush off to a doctor’s appointment right after the staff meeting), Anne went out of her way to avoid me. Which suited me just fine, because seeing her caused my snake of pain to resurface with a determination and fury that I was unprepared for.

_(“What do you fear, Frederick?”)_

All the emotions I had buried deep within and had even prided myself that I had overcome them, all of them crashed down on me and destroyed the careful balance I had worked so hard to create.

The most powerful and dominant emotion at the beginning was resentment. How dare she be here; at the same school my sister works at and I will work for in the coming year? How dare she look me in the eyes and smile like everything is right in the world when nothing is right, and I am being torn apart – yet again! – because of her!

Resentment and bitterness were the undertones of our every interaction, at least from my side, for those first confusing weeks. I wonder now how she felt. Being too caught up with my inner turmoil, I failed to see what her actual reaction was. Witnessing her panic attack today has told me that she is not coping well at all and that maybe, just maybe, nothing is right in her world as well.

Sophie and Howard noticed, of course, they did. But none of them, tactful as they are, forced me to make an explanation for my tense behaviour towards Anne. And as I miraculously managed to keep my anger and resentment in check, especially when working with the kids, they left me to it. My body became strong and toned again while I was taking out my rage through sports, driving myself to exhaustion again and again.

Then, Louisa happened.

I had noticed her right from the beginning. She was young, pretty, and a ray of sunshine, and at first, that was what drew me in. I craved the company of someone who knew nothing about being bitter and avoiding the person you once loved too much to even find words for it. Louisa was kind, she was lively and when talking to her, drinking a cup of coffee in our break together, I could forget for a moment that Anne was out there, alive and well, maybe even together with another man, who knew?

Then I noticed that Anne tended to leave the room very quickly when Louisa and I were flirting.

And that was where things went wrong. My snake took over, my bitterness and my resentment wrestled the steering wheel from me, and I started to flirt with Louisa explicitly to hurt Anne. I don’t know how, but I just knew it hurt her. Her face went white and her eyes wide. And then she ran, anywhere, just to get away from me.

It gave me a raw and disgusting kind of satisfaction.

Sophie came for my rescue, yet again. She had watched the drama from afar and intervened – and I will forever be grateful to her for that – before I could do anything more stupid than just flirting with Louisa. She pulled me aside one day and told me in no uncertain terms that even though she did not know why I was pulling this stunt, but _“So God help me, Frederick Wentworth, if you continue to be a cruel flirt to that girl without having any intention of actually being with her, I will make your life miserable. And if you continue to hurt Anne, you will get to know a side of me you didn’t even know existed.”_.

I love you too, sis. I really do.

I stopped flirting with Louisa. I was still polite to Anne, to an extent that it could be called stilted, but the undertone of resentment was missing. What was the point, after all? All of the nervous and agitated energy that had kept me going for the last three months disappeared and left me wrung out and exhausted.

I started to notice Anne more, now that I was not hell-bent on hating her guts. Sophie was right. Anne was excellent with the kids. Even though she was still avoiding me (I could have sworn I once saw her jump into a hedge just as I was rounding a corner), I managed to subtly observe her.

She was still beautiful, painfully so, and her quiet and steadfast energy and way of dealing with problems shaped the atmosphere at the school. And so, the place, that had been vacant when my bitterness and my resentment left me, found another occupant.

Yearning.

I yearned to talk to her, to touch her, to be part of her world, to BE with her.

In the months following Sophie’s intervention my yearning grew. But it was a different kind of yearning than the violent one I had experienced before, while at sea, mourning the end of our engagement, mourning the loss of Anne. My yearning now was cautious. It was afraid and hid itself well. However, after some time, my yearning got another companion. Apparently, my emotional range is always comprised of two compulsory emotions, not more, not less ( _“Emotional range of a teaspoon. Just like Ron Weasley”_ I can hear Anne saying in my head. She loves Harry Potter. At least she did back then).

So my teaspoon-sized emotional range expanded - yearning invited hope into my heart.

Because when watching Anne during her work and interactions with our colleagues, I realised a few things:

Anne was still single, is still single. At least, that is what I gathered from our colleagues. They always talked about how Anne sacrificed herself for this job and that she always said it was alright because there was nobody waiting at home for her. Everyone was full of praise for her as she had, at some point or another, basically relieved each staff member of an obligation at the school in order for them to be able to attend to their families.

Family. Anne’s family had been the reason for our breakup. That, and the fact that she had been so easily persuadable.

Sophie told me, that she and her husband – God bless his soul, I love my brother-in-law (I am a sucker for a good bromance, if you haven’t noticed. Richard is about the loveliest brother-in-law you can imagine, and he is perfect for Sophie) – lived in the former mansion of Anne’s family. Apparently, her father had had financial difficulties and Anne had suggested renting the mansion out in order to obtain funds.

Sophie added, that Anne had moved to a tiny cottage not too far away and that her family had relocated to Bath.

_“I wonder why she is not visiting them. Every time I ask her about her holiday plans, she tells me that she is perfectly fine on her own and that she has no plans to visit her father or her older sister. Only sometimes she mentions a sister called Mary.”_

There was a frown on Sophies' face as she said this. Every conversation Sophie has tried to start about this topic is kindly but firmly ended by Anne. When I try to discreetly ask about her godmother _(_ if actual witches exist, that woman embodies one down to a tee), Sophie looks at me all funny and asks me how I know that Anne has a godmother, as she has never mentioned her before.

The hope in me rejoiced at all these facts and grew, steadily and resolutely. I had no power to stop it, and I didn’t want to stop it.

While I was waiting for that paramedic to hand over the medication to Anne, I texted Sophie. And I texted Howard.

Of course, Howard knows who Anne is and what our history involves. He likes her very much and has been nothing but friendly towards her ever since Sophie introduced him to her. I texted him because I did not know whether following Sophies' order of staying with Anne was a good idea.

_“Fred, you are an idiot. Talk to her. Be kind. She deserves it. You deserve it. Get your head out of your arse and talk.”_

And now, I am looking at her, in her kitchen, knowing, that she does not share her life with anyone else, and knowing that the reason she did not want to share her life with me is not in the picture anymore.

_“What do you fear, Frederick?”_

It resounds in my head and I take a deep breath.

_(“Be kind.”)_


	6. Howard (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Life is very busy at the moment and I just want to thank you if you took some time out of your day to comment on this work - I will try to take some time out of my day to answer and if that doesn't happen then I want you to know that I highly appreciate your feedback and am very thankful for it :) 
> 
> And now enjoy another change in POV ;)

_“Darling, you remember we have the next appointment at the doctor on Wednesday, right?”_

I look up from my mobile phone and into the face of my gorgeous wife, wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of my boxers, topped off with some very yellow woollen socks.

The yellow is so intense, it hurts my eyes _._

_“Did you know that walking around with socks of this colour could be considered a criminal offence? Someone might get hurt because they are blinded by the brightness of them and get run over by a car!”_

Maggie laughs her charming laugh and winks at me.

_“Jealous of my socks, are we now? And not at all avoiding the question I just asked you? Trying to cover up the fact that you have forgotten about it?”_

I smile sheepishly _._

_“I might have forgotten about it just a little bit. But I swear, I am writing it down in my calendar right now and my phone will remind me to be a better husband and think about all of these important appointments we’ve got lined up until our little pumpkin decides she’s had enough of them and wants to meet the doctors in person.”_

I open my calendar on my phone, while Maggie turns around and manages to sit next to me on the couch. Being almost eight months pregnant means that she has the turning circle of a lorry and examines every possible movement warily and with a certain amount of _“is this REALLY necessary?”_ before deciding whether it is worth it.

Coincidentally, I have been moving much more ever since she got pregnant and am a highly attentive and thoughtful husband (except for this appointment thing. I AM working on it, though) who is (as my wife tends to remind me quite frequently) after all a former football striker. And as such, I was practically born for getting up in the middle of the night to speedily (speed is of the essence!) fetch from the kitchen whatever my precious wife desires.

_“When is the appointment again?”_

_“Wednesday, at 9.00 am.”_

Maggie looks at me with worry in her eyes.

Huh.

Wednesday.

Wednesday, the 26th of February.

My sister’s birthday.

My sister, who would have turned twenty-nine this year.

At the thought, my throat constricts, and I can feel pressure building behind my eyes.

Oh God, Fanny. Not even thirty when she –

I swallow heavily, and with shaking fingers open a window on the screen to type in _“doctors’ appointment, 9.00 am, 26 th of February”_.

My fingers stop cooperating midway through the text and Maggie gently takes my phone from me, completes the task, and turns towards me.

I can feel her love for me radiate from her, and envelop me before her arms do, before she presses my head into the crook of her neck, running her fingers through my hair.

_“I am so sorry, darling. There was no other appointment this week. I am so, so sorry!”_

I let the tears run down her neck and wonder how long I am going to feel this way. On Wednesday, I will once again see proof that my wife and I have created life, which thrills and terrifies me in equal measure every day. On Wednesday, I will once again (the second time since her death) feel the deep loss of my only sister, of one of the most important women in my life.

Maggie keeps caressing my hair, my face, my hands until the sobs have stopped, and I can lift my head slowly, and face her. There are tears running down her face as well and I feel so much tenderness and love for this woman, who is carrying my child, who really and truly is sharing my life with me, for better or worse.

_“God, I love you. I love you so much.”_

She smiles and lets me wipe away the tears on her cheeks.

_“If there was another appointment, I would have taken that, believe me. I would never intentionally cause you pain like this. There was just no other option and not going is out of the question.”_

_“Of course,”_ I smile at her, _“of course we will go. I will have to come to terms with the fact that –“_ my throat constricts again, but I plough on regardless, willing my grief to let the tears be this time, _“I will have to come to terms with the fact that life goes on. Even on… on Fanny’s birthday. And as I will have to live through this day one way or another, spending time on checking up with our little pumpkin here is a wonderful way to do it.”_

She smiles brilliantly and whispers _“One month left. Just one month and we will meet her.”_

_“Yes.”_

Her smile is contagious, the corners of my mouth lifting into an answering smile. I lean in to kiss her, my arms coming around her neck, caressing her back, her shoulders, her –

DING!

My phone has received a text message.

_“Really, Fred has the worst timing in the world”_ I grumble.

_“I’m sorry, honey, but I promised him I would be available to talk, should he want to”_

Maggie’s eyes sparkle with mirth in the face of my sudden grumpiness.

_“Fred? What would he want to talk to you about on a Sunday morning?”_

_“I actually need to check with him if I am allowed to tell you or whether he is not ready for that.”_

_“Well then, my wonderful darling husband, do that.”_

She gives me a quick kiss and continues, _“while your wonderful darling wife will start making breakfast.”_

_“I don’t deserve you.”_

She winks and disappears into the kitchen, wobbling a little now and then, because, you know, pregnant and all that.

Well then, Fred, let’s see whether you managed to cock it all up or whether you have actually shoved your pride out of the way and did yourself some good.

_“We talked.”_

Really? This is what I stopped kissing my wife for?

Honestly, Fred, a little more information would be highly appreciated. You know better than to –

DING!

_“We will take things slowly. Get to know each other again. And see where that leads us.”_

Ahh, this is better.

_“Congrats, mate. Steady on from now on.”_


	7. Howard (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)

_"So, how are things?"_ I ask Fred the next Friday.

We were both very busy during the week - Fred clearly trying very hard to make time for Anne and I once again swallowed by my grief for my sister and then elated because our daughter is still healthy and growing. So, Fred and I went to the gym together today and -as has been our tradition ever since we both started to work on the sports project - we go for a drink in our favourite pub afterward.

_"Things are... fine, I think"_.

Over the years I have practiced and finally accomplished **the** perfect skeptical eyebrow move and it gives me immense satisfaction to see Fred squirm under my gaze. Maggie once told me that my imposing eyebrow was the decisive factor for my career. It is frightening to face someone on the pitch who can already intimidate you with his eyebrow alone.

_“And they think 'If his eyebrow is already terrifying, just imagine what hideous things he is capable of accomplishing with the rest of his magnificent body'"_ , she would say (I might have altered her quotation just a bit, but even Maggie would admit that my body is, indeed, magnificent). And who am I to argue with my glorious wife?

Fred, apparently, is not fond of squirming.

_"Stop looking at me like that. What do you want me to say?"_

I raise my eyebrow a little higher and tilt my head to the right. Empirical evidence suggests that with this position, I have now reached my maximum intimidation-ness (is that even a word?).

If this doesn't work, I will rely on plan B - getting Fred well and truly smashed.

Fred sighs and stares into his almost empty glass.

_"It's hard, you know?"_ he says quietly. _"We agreed to take things slowly and get to know each other again."_

That much I knew already.

_"Anne is lovely."_

He resolutely avoids looking at me, but knowing Fred for all my life, I can see a small smile flit across his face, even though it appears only for a split second.

_"It's just..."_ His right hand ruffles his hair and scratches his jaw afterward with just his index finger, a nervous tick of his, –

_"I am scared, Howard."_

He almost whispers it, his voice raspy and hoarse.

My enjoyment of his discomfort vanishes instantly, and I feel deep compassion for my best friend. He went through hell after that breakup. And that's exactly why I need to keep him talking about this Anne-thing.

Fred is always so sure of himself - having an open and friendly disposition towards almost everyone coupled with a healthy sense of self has made him conquer life with ease and grace. He can be very determined, even stubborn if he wants to be and the number of people who can withstand the Wentworth charm, once its full force turns upon them, is decidedly limited.

Anne has been, to my knowledge, one of the very few exceptions to this rule, and an excruciating one to that end. Fred needs to regain his balance, his ease with her. He needs to learn how to trust again - build up faith in his own abilities and re-establish a common ground with Anne that allows him, allows both of them, to be more open and vulnerable.

If there is one thing I have learned from Fanny’s death or - in fact - from watching Fred deal with his whole breakup mess, it is that feelings you ignore or do not talk about don't just disappear. Oh no, if you think they have ceased to exist, brace yourself because you are in for a nasty surprise. Feelings of this category only vanish momentarily, to regroup, gather their strength and discuss their strategy, and then they descend upon you, overwhelm you with so much force that there is nothing you can do to withstand them. 

As a man, everyone tells you that you are not allowed to feel a lot, much less be overwhelmed by your feelings. In this patriarchal society, us white men have plenty of privileges, and we make use of them with an implicitness bordering on arrogance more often than not.

The privilege of allowing yourself to truly feel, to tend to your emotions, is not one granted to us. Believe it or not, this can cause serious damage to a person. Or to the environment of these persons, for that matter. Many men have a dangerously low emotional intelligence, as a result of becoming alienated with their own emotions. In most cases, it turns us "only" into insensitive and clumsy people who blunder through the world, doing others and ourselves involuntarily and unconsciously harm now and then, because we have no idea how to handle emotions of any kind.

In some cases, men turn into downright cruel and dangerous beings, rejoicing in the pain of others, because they are not able to connect to their empathy anymore and have lost an integral part of themselves. Bottling up emotions is the first step towards alienation with your own feelings and I will not let that happen to Fred.

_"Tell me."_

There is a pause as Fred keeps on meditating the remaining contents of his glass.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down nervously as he swallows, and then says in a low _voice "I am still so in love with her. I didn't think it possible, but just being with her for a few times this week has made me realise that."_.

Another pause.

_"There was never truly anybody else for me, you know? And my experience from this week has convinced me, that there will never be anybody else for me."_

He finishes his drink.

_"What if I am wrong? What if she hasn't changed, what if that godmother of hers reappears and I have to go through all of it again? I can't do that, Howard. You know I can't."_

I take my time to formulate an answer.

Fear, in my experience, is best tackled with warmth and honesty, rather than quickly spoken reassurances.

_"There will never be a guarantee for your happiness, Fred. Nobody will be able to give you the 100% reassurance that you are looking for. You know just as well as I do, that we are all taking a risk by simply being alive."_

He lets out a short laugh at this, brittle and dry.

_“Truth is that you will be hurt either way. Being without Anne will hurt you deeply - don't look at me like that. Tell me that for the past ten years, you were doing just fine without her. See? That's what I am talking about._

_You will be hurt, if you keep your distance, and then being with Anne might hurt you just as well, because Anne is as much human as anyone. So, while you are anyways out here, being alive and all that shit, you could try to wipe that mopey look off your face that you have perfected over the last ten years."_

Warmth, honesty, and a little teasing.

_"Mopey, am I now? Well, I will have to prove to you then how decidedly not-mopey I can be."_

There is a real smile on his face as he says this.

_"Thanks, mate."_

I can see the gratitude in his eyes and just because I can, I raise my eyebrow again.


	8. Sophie (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a slow and rainy weekend over here, so I managed to edit two chapters at once. Because this is a short one, I am uploading it now and in the next chapter, we will return to Anne’s POV :)
> 
> With regard to the conversation between Anne and Fred: If at the end of this fic you still have the feeling that it will add an important missing piece to this story, I might write it down and post it as a bonus chapter (because right now most of it has so far taken place only in my head, except for the parts you will read about in later chapters) :)
> 
> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> I hope all of you are healthy and safe, take care of yourself, and have a wonderful Monday! 
> 
> And now without further ado – introducing Fred’s sister Sophie.

_“Can I bring Anne?”_

Huh. I look down on my phone and read the text from Fred again.

_“Can I bring Anne?”_

Well, this is a new development.

Or maybe not.

Ever since the initial meeting between those two, where Anne fainted, I suspected they somehow knew each other. And for some reason these two wonderful people, who could get along so well in my opinion, where absolutely terrified to be in each other’s company.

Of course, they both tried to disguise it. Fred went rigid every time Anne was in the room and he put on a polite and smooth façade. My brother is a lot of things, but stilted, polite, and disgustingly smooth is not one of them.

Anne, on the other hand, tried to vanish into thin air. At least she tried very hard, I think. As disappearing into thin air goes, it didn’t work very well and so she had to resort to some drastic measures. I honestly think I saw her crawl out from one of the hedges on the schoolyard, for heaven’s sake.

Sadness fills me when I remember the panic attacks she’s evidently been having. They must have started shortly after Fred started working at our school.

Curious.

I have always had a soft spot for Anne. There are very few people out there who care about everyone else in the way that Anne does. And at the same time, that woman is terrible in caring for herself. So, I try to watch over her, at least at school. However, with the panic attacks, she wouldn’t let me. Until three weeks ago, that is.

I have to shake my head at the thought of that stupid Mr. William Elliot (there is something about his person that just tires me out. It’s not that he is rude or anything, in fact, he is always extremely polite. But soooooo slow on the uptake when everybody in the situation is silently screaming _“PLEASE LEAVE. NOW.”_ ).

No idea why he keeps coming back to Anne, she is obviously not interested and too polite to say anything. Lucky for Anne that Fred was nearby when that disastrous attack struck. Mr. Elliot is too much of a self-centred prick to actually do something when someone needs help.

Coincidentally, what was Fred doing in front of Anne’s office? His workplace is basically on the other side of the school and his working hours had just ended.

More food for thought.

I am usually not prone to gossiping and I pride myself to always observe first and only judge when necessary.

In this case, however, I came to a conclusion pretty quickly. Nothing scream’s so blatantly and loudly of heartache like the looks on Anne’s and Fred’s face when they accidentally bumped into each other, neither prepared for the presence of the other.

So, Fred and Anne have, at some point in their life, been involved somehow.

Judging by the shameless flirting my brother tried to use as a weapon against Anne (God, he is stupid sometimes), it must have been quite serious. When I told him to stop that nonsense, I felt like I was giving the young Freddie a stern talking to, not the grown-up and responsible Frederick Wentworth. Young Freddie, four years old, with scraped knees, because he had once again tried to climb a tree that was far too difficult for him to climb, which had ended in the predictable disaster of Freddie almost breaking his leg after falling.

Just like in those days, Fred was incredibly lucky nothing worse happened. Louisa is happily engaged by now (and not to him, thank God! I like her very much – but Louisa and Fred would never have been happy together) and – after the panic incident three weeks ago – he and Anne are apparently… well, whatever they are doing, they seem to be doing it together, judging by Fred’s text message.

And Fred just asked me whether he could bring Anne with him to our traditional Sunday roast at our house (we started that tradition when Fred came back from overseas, sometimes with our parents, and sometimes without). Which was Anne’s house before.

Things are certainly getting interesting; I can feel it. So, by all means, Freddie, go ahead.

_“Rich? Are you there?”_

My husband shouts something incomprehensible from the kitchen, where he is currently cooking something delicious by the smell of it. I get up and walk through the living room into the kitchen (one of the living rooms, I should add. This house is HUGE. Sometimes I wonder where it is too big for just the two of us. But then I look into our garden and enjoy our luxurious bathroom and these thoughts scatter to the wind).

_“Honey, Fred asks whether he can bring Anne Elliot with him for our Sunday roast. Do you remember her, the daughter of our landlord? She works at my school as a social worker.”_

Rich looks slightly bewildered but shrugs his shoulders.

_“Sure, why not? I didn’t know these two were a thing?”_

Working for one of the most prestigious law firms of the country – Darcy, Bingley & Partners – and specialising in criminal law in the shipping sector, my husband has seen stranger things than his brother-in-law bringing a woman for lunch.

_“I am not quite sure they are. However, if Fred wants to bring her here to “meet” us, we will know soon enough, I hope.”_

While Rich busies himself with the mouth-watering pasta dish that is to be our dinner, I rummage in my memories.

There has to be a clue somewhere, I am sure.

_“Woah, what is that look for? Do you not want lemon ricotta pasta for dinner?”_

_“Oh, I am sorry, my love.”_

Laughingly, I walk over to him and kiss his cheek affectionately. Seventeen years of marriage to him and over twenty-five years of knowing him have changed nothing about that fierce and all-encompassing love I feel for this man. Richard Croft was and is the love of my life and even though we have had our fair share of heartache and experienced numerous crises along the way, we have always stood strong by each other, never doubting that we were meant to face this life together.

_“It’s just… you know when I introduced Fred and Anne to each other about seven months ago, I got a distinct feeling that they knew each other already. Quite intimately as well, if I were to make a guess.”_

_“Oh, but you do not guess, do you? My precious wife is definitely **not** in the habit of guessing and idle gossip.”_

Rich’s eyes sparkle with mirth at my blatant attempt to mask the burning curiosity I feel towards this conundrum. I actually feel myself blush a little bit at his words.

_“I feel protective towards both of them, you know. Anne is enchanting and Fred is…. well my brother, of course.”_

_“Oh really? Now that you mention it, I dimly recall that I have a brother-in-law who looks astonishingly like Fred. Do you think we should introduce them? They might get along splendidly.”_

His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

_“Richard Croft, desist mocking me immediately!”_

I swat his shoulders when he laughs and wraps me in a bear hug.

_“What are you worried about, my love?”_ , he inquires into my hair, while his arms caress my back.

_“Do you remember when Fred went to the Navy?”_

_“How could I forget?”_

_“I have been thinking a lot about that lately”,_ I skilfully ignore Rich’s raised eyebrow at this point, _“and I think that Anne might be the missing piece in the puzzle that was Fred at the time.”_

Now Rich has the decency to look at least a little interested.

_“You believe so?”_

_“Yes, I do. Before he volunteered for the Navy, he was an intern in an engineering company, somewhere close to here, do you recall? I wish I could remember the name of that firm. Anyways, before he started the internship and in the middle of it, he was practically brimming with enthusiasm for them and all the opportunities they could provide for his future. And then, all of a sudden, he had no interest at all to stay with them. He could not leave fast enough, and I have always wondered what had happened.”_

_“And you think it has to do with Anne?”_

_“Maybe, who knows. Whenever I try to question her about her life before our school, she very firmly puts a stop to the topic.”_

Rich looks at me with a shrewd look.

_“You know, the MI6 has made a tremendous mistake in not hiring you. You would have been brilliant in the secret service.”_

_“Richard Croft! I said desist teasing me immediately!”_

Even as I say it, I have to join his laughter. How could I not? There are few things on this planet more attractive to me than my husband laughing and enjoying himself.


	9. Anne (Part IV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Here we go, back to Anne! :)

_“Anne, I’m so sorry for not calling earlier. Can I ask you – I mean – Oh God, sorry! The baby is on its way. Howard and Maggie are at the hospital and he asked me to come too. I was – God, I was wondering whether you would like to come with me?”_

Come to the hospital with him? To the birth of Howard’s and Maggie’s child? Just like that? How is that -? I – they - …? What - ?

I am speechless, apparently.

It is the beginning of the Easter holidays. Two glorious weeks without school. Two weeks where Fred and I can get to know each other without having to navigate around our work schedule. Fred had wanted to pick me up and told me we would _“go somewhere nice”_. He was supposed to call me at 4 pm, to tell me where we would meet.

He didn’t call. I felt a little defeated. Hurt, even maybe.

For the past six weeks, we have been meeting regularly, two to four times per week. Looking back to The Panic Incident ™, I can scarcely believe that we are actually doing this.

When I close my eyes, I can still smell the coffee he made that morning. I can still hear his voice as he – cautiously and nervously – asked me how I felt about getting to know each other again. Whether I would be willing to meet him the next week for coffee after work.

I have no idea how I managed to answer in a coherent sentence (my heart was hammering out of control, its beat echoing through my chest cavity, my entire body, up and down, up and down, up and down, ever faster), but apparently I did manage to do just that (because of course, I wanted to meet him for a coffee. I am not big on competitions, but if there was a _“Who wants to meet Frederick Wentworth for coffee the most?”_ contest, I would win that one hands down).

At the beginning of this _“getting to know each other again”_ , all we did was talk. In a café, while walking, while going to the movies, even at work - basically anywhere and everywhere. Talking about the ten years that we have missed out on each other’s lives. Talking about our work, the kids we take care of, the challenges and the upsides of our job.

Sometimes, talking comes easy and the words flow, without embarrassing pauses or stilted politeness. Sometimes, it is more difficult than that. We are still very cautious, both of us, and wary of being hurt. Enduring silence while in each other’s company is a tricky one at the moment. But still, we persevere, and I would say we are making progress, each week a little step forward, and no step back so far.

In the third week of this… well, we haven’t decided on a label yet, but anyway, in the third week, he asked me whether I would like to accompany him to a Sunday roast at Sophie and her husband’s house.

I was terrified. And incredibly excited.

Sophie is, after all, one of my favourite people, and she and her husband are living in my childhood home. I had to agree, even though my knees were much weaker than they usually were, when I entered the house (while my inner social worker was busy calming the many weird voices in my head who were obsessing about anything and everything that could go wrong).

Somehow, I made it through that encounter without embarrassing myself, and actually managed to enjoy it. Everyone included me in the conversation, making me feel at home and at ease. I caught Fred looking at me intensely several times. It made my breath hitch and my palms sweaty (necessitating a veeery strong hold on my cutlery. Who wants to be a guest dropping knife and fork all the time?).

I am not proficient at hiding my emotions (meaning my face does its very best to be an open book to everyone around me _)_ , so I kept my gaze down and tried to calm my heart, which started a joyful and chaotic beat every time I felt Fred’s eyes upon me.

I had forgotten how it felt to be the centre of someone’s attention. Usually, being subjected to attention of any kind makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Putting me in the spotlight is about the worst thing you can do to me, and I endeavour to make myself scarce very quickly when I feel the attention coming my way.

Being the centre of Fred’s attention, however, is a different thing. When he looks at me, I can feel my skin prickle from the genuine and tender curiosity of his gaze, the seriousness of his interest in me.

Even though we have not spoken about it and explicitly avoid the topic of our engagement and subsequent breakup like the proverbial elephant in the room, I am almost certain that both of us know, we are not doing this _“getting to know each other again”_ to be just friends.

And the possibility of us not being just friends enforces the sweet pain between my ribs again, makes it harder for me to breathe and at the same time I feel a very tender hope bloom in my chest (which makes for a really confusing cocktail of emotions in that part of my body). I would have never expected Fred to be part of my life again, much less expected him to be – after all the horridness and pain I must have put him through – still interested in being something more than distant acquaintances. Consequently, my hands shook quite a bit while eating that roast (which was delicious, by the way. Richard is an excellent cook).

After lunch, we took a stroll around the garden and then walked on through the village. I loved being back again, drinking in the familiar environment and always sensing Fred’s presence next to me. He was talking to Sophie and Richard about something (I honestly don’t recall what the topic of the discussion was) and I was content with just being here.

Walking through my childhood home while being surrounded by people who were not criticising me at any arising opportunity, was a new and unfamiliar experience for me. My father and Elizabeth usually don’t care much for my opinion and my feelings. Mary is most of the time too self-absorbed to even notice that I might be more than just a person existing to take care of her.

It took me a long time, but during my therapy and the years following, I finally gave myself the permission to acknowledge that my family is a dysfunctional one; that it is toxic for me and my self-esteem to be around them and that – most of the time – I am better off without them. This thought still hurts and makes me feel guilty at the same time because dysfunctional we may be as a family – it changes nothing about the fact that we **are** family. And I love my father and sisters dearly.

_“Anne? Anne, are you there?”_

Fuck, Fred is still waiting for an answer.

_“Of course, of course. Sorry, my mind just wandered there for a second. I would be honoured to come to the hospital with you.”_

_“I knew it! Thank you so much, I will pick you up at your house in ten minutes.”_

_“Fred, wait! Do you – are you – is it really okay if I come with you? I mean, I haven’t even met Maggie, and this is after all the birth of her first child. Are you absolutely certain that they are agreeable to this?”_

_“Annie, Howard told me explicitly to call and ask for your presence. Both of their parents can’t be there for some reason I haven’t understood and so it is more than alright; you are very welcome there.”_

Annie. He hasn’t called me that since…

_“I will be waiting for you then.”_

True to his word, Fred appears on my front door exactly ten minutes later. I can practically feel his giddy excitement vibrating through the door. It makes me want to laugh and I open the door with a huge grin on my face.

_“There you are!”_

The butterflies in my stomach start fluttering excitedly at the sound of his voice and my heart does a little dance at the sight of him.

On that day with Sophie and Richard, while we were walking through the village, I could not contain my happiness anymore. Fred was here, with me, inviting me to get to know his family better, looking out for me and not wavering in his attention to me for one second. The sun was shining, there was a little bit of green on the trees already, I could hear a bird singing, and I felt elated. It was too much to keep in, and on a mad impulse, I grabbed his hand and interlaced my fingers with his, sweaty palms be damned.

Sophie and Richard were walking a little bit in front of us and had just rounded a corner, so I seized the moment. I did not look at him while doing it, that would have been too much (the weird voices in my head where still there - some of them running uncontrollably from one corner to another - my anxiety shouting at me - what that fuck I was thinking - JUST TAKING HIS HAND, ANNE - are you out of your mind?!? - I couldn’t handle more sensory input than I already had and, consequently, didn’t look at him).

There was no need to look at him, however. For a split second, I could feel his hesitation, his gaze burning into me, and then he took hold of my hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

There was no way I could stop smiling then (and my inner social worker cheerfully handed out sedatives to the participants of the madhouse in my head who were still panicking). 

Ever since then, we have been touching.

Nothing big, no hugs or kisses or anything like that. Small touches. His hand on the small of my back when we step into a room together. My hand in his, when we take a leisurely walk in the forest behind my cottage. His thumb, running reassuring circles around mine while doing so. Once, I dared to caress his cheek while saying goodbye to him, just a feather-light touch. And once he dared to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, let his fingers trail down my neck, gently.

All of this makes me wiggle my toes with joy. And it helps me to ignore the still present sweet pain between my rips, the tense knot in my stomach, the weird voices in my head, all of it somehow insistently reminding me that being with Fred can have disastrous consequences if I am not careful.

The one thing we need to still master though is greetings.

Being in this weird state of _“maybe on our way to not being just friends but also not being there just yet”_ means that both of us are at a loss how to start any of our interactions.

At school, this is less difficult. We quickly agreed that, whatever journey we were undertaking at the moment, it should be a private one. So, we keep our interactions at work light and do not touch there (we never talked about this point, it was implicit. No need to get the kids gossiping and all excited. Or the staff, for that matter.). We don’t avoid each other, but we also do not seek each other out too actively.

Outside of work, however, is a different matter. Oh, hail the awkwardness! We don’t hug each other, or give us a kiss on the cheek, because judging by the standards of our current physical interaction, it would be way too much.

Shaking hands on the other hand (see that pun there? No? Look harder) is out of the question (who shakes hands with a person they reeeeally …..like, anyway?) and so we have settled for a strange mixture of looking at each other happily and standing rooted to the spot.

Fred’s excitement for the birth of Howard’s and Maggie’s daughter, however, is contagious and makes me want to do something reckless. Taking a deep breath, I lean forward, angle my face towards him, our eyes lock and…

Nothing.

We keep smiling at each other, standing in my doorway, a little too close for _“just friends”,_ but also waaaay too far apart for anything else. My head is still angled in a weird way (if you are not kissing, there honestly is no reason for tilting your head all to the right for more than just a few seconds).

The atmosphere shifts, giddy excitement is replaced by – surprise, surprise – awkwardness.

Fred clears his throat loudly, far too loudly given the fact that I am standing right in front of him. His hands fall back to his side (when did he raise them?) and he asks _, “Shall we, then?”._

Chin up, Annie girl, you will conquer this. Wherever this is going, the awkwardness will not win. Things will get better; I am sure they will. Just ignore that damnable aching reminder between your ribs and go for it.

If my smile is diminished just a little when I nod, then so be it. It is still a smile and we walk to his car.


	10. Anne (Part V)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)  
> Trigger warning for discussion of mental health issues and detailed description of a panic attack.

Fred is driving us to the same hospital he had to take me to six weeks ago. I’ve had four panic attacks ever since, but fortunately, they all happened while I was at home and nobody else was there.

Somehow, I feel a deep sense of shame for feeling this way. For not being able to control my fear and whatever triggers it. The first appointment with my therapist is in three weeks (you know how it is. Getting appointments with therapists takes time, whether you have it or not) and until then I will just have to hope and pray that nothing will happen.

I have had panic attacks for about four months now, and I can confirm that they reside in the area of _“highly unpleasant life experiences”_. These attacks are horrible.

They are probably different for everyone – for me, the worst is the feeling of not being able to breathe. If your body believes you are suffocating, it will very quickly switch to survival mode, coupled with a hefty dose of fear of death. My heart rate accelerates, I feel even dizzier than before, my thoughts no longer coherent (they start running in circles only to stop abruptly and start at a completely different topic, only to return to running in circles again, and all of that with a frightening intensity, my own mind shouting at me, both of us scared, panicked, angry, confused), my feet and palms sweaty and cold at the same time. I can feel every part of my body tingle before an eerie numbness spreads through my limbs making proper movement almost impossible. All of this happens fairly silently; I only screamed once during an attack (but you already know that). So far, my only remedy for them is to wait until they pass, praying with all my heart to a God I don’t believe in that it will pass quickly and leave me alone.

And ever since The Panic Incident ™, I have started to fear not only the triggers of these attacks but the attacks themselves. Which might be understandable; I imagine that nobody likes to experience mortal fear on a regular basis (my inner social worker points out that I am headed straight for a generalized anxiety disorder, if things continue like this, and that I should really do something about it. Like talking to people, not only my therapist. My anxiety and my irresponsible adult team up and thrust my social worker into a ditch, because who wants to deal with reality and all that).

If I am honest with myself, I am sure I could pin Fred and his behaviour towards Louisa down as the initial trigger for the attacks.

If I am truly honest with myself, I can say that – even though I finally established some sort of boundaries with my family after the therapy – I have neglected myself for a very long time, maybe even my entire life.

These attacks do not come out of the blue. Most of the days they happen on are bad days. Days I ignore my own needs even more than usual because of that pain between my rips, all the while knowing and feeling something is off.

It is not easy for me, to be forward and articulate my needs and my wishes to anyone, basically. It feels wrong for me to just go ahead and demand that someone take care of me, that someone talks to me or cares for my opinion _(“Fred would care”,_ my social worker shouts from the ditch. The irresponsible adult turns around to deliver another firm shove _)._ This would feel like drawing attention towards me and my family, especially my father and my elder sister never rewarded that in a positive way.

I sometimes wonder how my life would have been if my mum had lived longer. If not my father and his self-centred manners had shaped our family life, but my mother.

I was ten when she died. Old enough to remember her. Too young to have many clear memories of her. I remember a quiet, determined woman. Laughing silently when one of her daughters told her a joke. Caressing our hair, giving us a kiss on the cheek for sharing our funny story with her. Smelling like home and comfort. Hugging and hushing me, when I was hurt, physically, or emotionally.

My godmother always said that I have inherited the disposition of my mother, whereas Elizabeth clearly resembles my father. And Mary. God knows where Mary’s disposition came from.

My mother was never angry; at least I never saw her angry (that much I remember). She never screamed at me or belittled me. When I did something wrong, she would talk to me about it in a calm, decisive manner. She would explain to me why it was wrong to push Mary into a rose bush _(“Annie, do you understand why it hurt Mary?”)_ or run away when I was supposed to do my homework _(“Annie, do you understand why going to school and doing your homework means taking care of your future self?”)_.

When I would come to her, and stutter about something I was ashamed of (which happened very often. I have always been quick to feel shame or embarrassment at almost anything), she would listen patiently, take my hands in hers and if I still couldn’t make sense of what I actually wanted to say, she would embrace me and say _“We will make this alright, Annie. Tell me, have no fear. It will be alright.”_

Fred rouses me from my thoughts when he parks the car in the hospital parking lot.

I frown - doesn’t it usually take thirty minutes to arrive there?

 _“You have been very quiet today.”_ Fred’s eyes are worried. _“Are you alright?”_

I try to smile (it was so straightforward to smile when we met today, where is that ease gone?), but I am afraid it looks more than a grimace than anything.

_“I’m fine. It’s just ...there are many things on my mind currently.”_

_“If you are uncomfortable being here, we can leave. I would just quickly check up on Howard and then I will drive you home again.”_

My smile is more genuine this time and I reach for his hand. After hesitating for a beat, I take his hand in mine.

I take a moment to study how they fit together.

Fred’s hands have fascinated me from the very beginning. They are strong, firm hands. Always warm, right down to his fingertips. These are hands made for tackling life, for taking up any challenge thrown their way. These hands radiate safety, comfort, tenderness, protection. His hands do not shy away from a challenge. And they surely can handle me and my panic attacks, can’t they?

 _“Fred, I ...there is...”_ I swallow. Why is this so God damn difficult?

_(“Have no fear”)_

_“There is something I need to tell you.”_

_“Of course, you can –“_

DING – DING -

His phone has received a text message.

Fred closes his eyes and squeezes my hand.

 _“That’s probably Howard asking why we are not there already.”_ He lets out a breath and asks _“Do you think we could talk after this? I would very much like to know whatever it is that is bothering you.”_

I nod and try to keep my embarrassment and my anxiety in check. This is the second time today that I have made him uncomfortable by putting my wishes before his, and I am ashamed of myself _(“That’s not true and you know it”_ yells my social worker from the ditch. _“Fucking talk to him already!”)._

_(“Have no fear, Annie.”)_

We get out of the car.

Howard is a nervous wreck when we arrive, and his uncertainty instantly relieves me of my own. Because this is what I do to cope, what I have been doing for more than thirty years now. Consume the worries and fears of others and forget my own.

_(“You will pay bitterly.”)_

Hours drag on, Howard coming in and out of the delivery room, and then, finally, he emerges once more from the room, with a beatific smile on his face _._

_“Oh my God, she is perfect. Our daughter is here, and I have never seen anything more perfect.”_

There are tears in his eyes and he has to swallow hard several times, while Fred just beams at him. The two men look at each other, and there is so much friendship, companionship in that gaze that I feel like an intruder. Fred quickly almost violently hugs Howard, and then I can offer my congratulations as well. While I am not sure whether Howard and I have reached the level of friendship yet where a congratulatory hug is acceptable or even expected, Howard has no such qualms and envelops me in a big bear hug and says, _“Thank you for coming, for being here!”_.

There is not one person on this planet who could withstand joining Howard Harville in his rapturous happiness and I smile back at him. When he releases me from his bear hug, I can feel Fred standing behind me, cautiously putting his hand on the small of my back. I lean into his touch and suddenly he is hugging me from behind, his hands on my waist, his face in my hair.

I freeze for a split second, and Fred notices instantly. His hands let go of my waist as if burned and takes a step back. He looks slightly flushed and mumbles something unintelligible, before turning and walking to the window of the waiting room.

Howard is saying something about waiting another half hour before we can meet his little angel and disappears again.

_(“Have no fear.”)_

I take a deep breath.

It had felt so good.

The embrace could not have lasted longer than a few seconds, and yet I felt his heartbeat at my back, his reassuring presence grounding me, the hands I admire so much holding me protectively.

_(“Have no fear.”)_

He is still by the window, looking outside, definitely not looking at me. With shaky legs, I walk over to him and stand next to him. For a moment, nobody talks.

It is completely still in the waiting room (not surprising given the fact that it is already 1 am in the morning). Somewhere in the distance, a machine hums its steady, mechanical tune.

Deep breath, Anne. The awkwardness will not win _(“I knew it!”_ my inner social worker is jubilant. She cheers me on.).

_“Fred?”_

He is still not looking at me.

_“Fred, look at me.”_

Reluctantly he tears his gaze away from the window and looks at me, finally.

My heart starts its happy and chaotic beat again, my palms are clammy already. I raise them regardless, to his face. With awe, I trace my fingers over his face, very lightly. I trace his eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones.

The more I touch him, the more blissful I feel; I can sense the corners of my mouth lifting, my eyes starting to shine with the joy I feel. With the love, I feel for this man, the love I had to hide for too long, had to deny for too long.

Uncertainty and hurt from being rejected are still written on Fred’s face, though, and so -taking another deep breath – I decide to relieve him of his agony. My feet shuffle closer, ever closer to his. My hands trace his neck, his shoulders, his back, his arms, his hands. I rest my forehead onto his and together, we just stand there, in a half embrace, feeling the nervous anticipation build.

I want to close my eyes, to focus completely on everything my body feels. But I can’t, his eyes are locked with mine and it is impossible to look away.

_(“Have no fear”)_

Hesitantly, he lifts his hands, and they start drawing patterns on my back. Mine travel up his back again, caressing the skin on his neck, pouring out every ounce of tenderness I have to give, pouring it over his neck, his face and then his scalp as my fingers find their way into his hair.

We are both smiling now.

He nudges me with his nose, pulls me closer, until we touch, almost from toe to chest. His heart beats a nervous tattoo at his neck.

_“Anne is this ... is this what you want?”_

Even his whisper sounds too loud for our own small bubble of joy, right here at the window.

_“Yes. Yes, I want this very much.”_

Maybe the bubble isn’t so fragile as I imagined, because it keeps existing even though we have both spoken and shattered the relative peace and quiet of the night.

My reassurance is all we need, apparently, because the next moment we both lean in and our lips meet.

It is not a passionate kiss. Just a tender and slow brush of the lips. Then a bit more, a bit more confident. My eyes close and I let myself feel.

All of it.

(My inner social worker pops a bottle of champagne and generously distributes it among all the other weird participants of my inner monologue).

My sense of time is completely distorted, so I cannot for the life of me tell you how long we stood there, kissing and caressing, feeling the safety of our bubble, smiling, kissing some more.

_“You have no idea how much I want this, Fred.”_

He is wearing a smile that could rival Howard’s from before.

_“I want this too. So much.”_

His lips rain down kisses on my face, my cheeks, my eyes, my neck.

When Howard arrives with his perfect and gorgeous little baby girl to tell us that we should return tomorrow to speak to Maggie, we part reluctantly. Fred keeps his arm around my waist, though, and I revel in the feeling of all of it.

After saying goodbye to Howard, Fred turns towards me and asks, _“Should I drive you home?”_

_“Yes, please.”_

Summoning all my courage, I take a deep breath.

_“Would you like to – that is - would you come with me? To my house, I mean. To stay the night?”_

His kiss is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was one beast of a chapter! Out of all the characters, Anne is the most challenging for me to write and this chapter just wouldn’t become what I wanted it to be. I decided to upload it regardless because I don’t think it will get any better soon.
> 
> With regard to the panic attack: I hope I am doing this mental health issue justice. I haven’t suffered from one myself, even though I have worked with people who were experiencing them on a regular basis. Please let me know if there is anything you feel I have failed to portray correctly. 
> 
> And if you are suffering from mental health problems, no matter how insignificant your struggle might seem to you, I want to encourage you to seek help, to reach out to people and get support. People care about you, there is always someone who cares and there are things which can be done to help you. 
> 
> Take care and stay safe and healthy!


	11. Frederick (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Warning for innuendo in this chapter ;)

Something is tickling me. I can feel a sneeze creeping its way up my nose, making me grimace. I force my eyes open to remove the source of the rude tickling. My hands make contact with... hair.

Instantly, I am wide awake.

Gentle morning light shines through the curtains of Anne’s bedroom, a few flecks of dust dancing in the air. I follow the light rays to where they touch Anne’s skin, caressing her freckles, her veins, her fingers. Eyes closed, her back is turned towards me and one of her arms is dangling from the bed. I take a moment to just look at her, to take in the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. Her hair is tousled and in disarray, strands of it resolutely making their way all over her pillow and beyond like wild little rebels. I carefully untangle the one which has woken me so rudely just a minute ago.

My brain needs some caffeine, the shock of waking up in Anne’s room, NEXT to her, has already lessened a bit and the neurons in my head start to run wild to make sense of the situation I am in. Because yesterday evening and night were mindbogglingly confusing, to say the least.

Anne had been unusually quiet during the ride to the hospital, staring out of the window and not saying a word to me. The silence between us felt heavy and unnatural. She seemed so lost in thought that I was afraid to startle her out of her musings.

Then, she had wanted to tell me something, and Howard had come in between. She rejected my approach of physical intimacy, only to come back a few minutes later and kiss me, telling me that she wanted this, that she wanted us, as much as I want it.

My head hurts just thinking about it all.

The ride back to her home was also silent, but it was comfortable, like a well-worn sweater you slip into after a long and tiresome day. Before I could make a turn onto her street, however, Anne grabbed my hand on the gear lever and breathlessly said _“Keep going straight. There is a pharmacy, just at the end of the next road.”_

A pharmacy. My stomach clenched with worry.

_“Are you...do you need more medication? Like the one you got at the hospital?”_

She stared at me incomprehensibly, then blushed furiously.

_“No, oh God no, I still have it.”_

The pit which had formed in my stomach diminished and I relaxed. No emergency medication needed then. I decided to just follow her lead and soon enough, I parked the car in front of the pharmacy. The building was dark, only the neon lights of the pharmacy sign from outside blinking, casting an eerie light around into the night.

_“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”_

She fumbled with the seat belt, then bolted out of the door. In the rear mirror, I could see her rummage for something in her handbag; she pulled out her purse and only then I noticed what was attached to the wall of the pharmacy.

My throat went dry.

Condoms.

Anne was buying condoms.

Oh God…

It had been a long time since I let myself feel desire for Anne. After our breakup, I tried to keep myself busy and exhausted to a point that I felt numb, not capable of feeling anything similar to sexual attraction to anyone and that was exactly what I wanted (but hey, I am a human being, that strategy works only in the short term). And when it didn’t work anymore, I started a kind of _“friends with benefits”_ thing with a woman on board. It helped to keep the urges of my body in check and gave me the occasional high of an orgasm, with the additional benefit of refining my skills as a lover (few things can restore your fragile male ego faster than a woman having an orgasm because of you).

It was just sex, though. Nothing more.

Making myself vulnerable again, letting my barriers down, and enjoying sex on an emotional level was out of the question. Sex with Anne had so profoundly shaped my understanding of what it meant to be connected to another person, not just through a relationship, but actually physically (you know the mechanics of it, no need to go into detail), that I could not imagine recreating that feeling with anybody else.

Not that we had a lot of sex during our engagement. We were both living with our parents at the time, and especially Anne was cautious to not draw too much attention from her family to our relationship. It still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to remember the way her father looked at me the first time we met. She was right to be cautious. And so, we made use of the opportunities arising now and then and tried to be satisfied with what we got.

And now she was buying condoms.

When we met at the beginning of the school year, I was so overcome with anger and resentment that I could not allow myself to long for her on this level. Anne is not a classic beauty (what is that anyway?); you need to look more closely to discover her loveliness.

Taking a closer look at her was what got me into trouble in the first place, those ten years ago, and now it was getting me into trouble all over again. Because, of course, once I started yearning and hoping, I started looking and God, I couldn’t stop. My discipline and self-control went flying out of the window, the desire and longing for her growing steadily. When it got too much to bear, I very hesitantly and carefully found some time for myself, to take care of that rampant imagination of mine and its implications for my body. Actual sex with Anne was, at that moment, as improbable as me turning into Rapunzel (did I mention I like Disney movies?) and so I did what needed to be done to turn me into a functioning adult again.

But now, ohh, now.

Buying condoms means something, doesn’t it? 

I was so caught up in my inner turmoil that I almost jumped out of my seat when Anne opened the door again. In the light of the car, her cheeks were still red; she was very much not looking at me while throwing her handbag in the footwell and attaching her seatbelt. I stared at her in wonder and confusion, still utterly bewildered by what I had just witnessed.

She finally raised her eyes to meet mine.

_“I thought - well, I thought, it is better to be prepared, isn’t it?”_

Apparently, my vocal capabilities had also flown out of the window, so I settled for a nod and started the car with shaking fingers.

However, when we reached her cottage, it turned out that we were both way too exhausted to actually do something. We stood a little indecisively in her hallway, not quite knowing how to talk about the next step. Whatever that would be.

_“Listen”,_ I began, turning towards her and taking her hand, _“I can sleep in the spare room again if you like. There is no need to rush anything.”_.

I pressed a little kiss to her palm, to show her that I meant it. I did not want to rush Anne into anything she didn’t want. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel pressured into having sex with me. Just thinking about that made me feel sick.

She had turned her palm to rest it on my cheek (her hand so small and warm. I love that we are connecting like this, on a physical level. Sex will come whenever it feels right, no reason to push for something we are not ready for).

_“Maybe...maybe you could just come to bed with me and we see what happens?”_

She had leaned in closer to me while saying it, resting her forehead onto mine and interlacing her fingers behind my back.

_“Okay,”_ I whispered back.

And that was it, basically.

We went to bed (changing in front of each other came strangely naturally. We both looked at each other a bit sheepishly, turned around and changed. It did feel a little anticlimactic) and nothing happened.

Anne curled into my side, and I revelled in the feeling of being able to put my arms around her and pull her close. Her bedroom was dark and quiet, the hum of the fridge from the kitchen reminding me of our kiss in the hospital just an hour ago. And for the first time since we started this _“getting to know each other”_ I felt completely at peace.

Anne was here, with me. We were sleeping in the same bed. She had bought condoms. Everything was possible, but nobody was forcing us to do anything. The holidays had only begun. Maggie had done the incredible thing and brought a child into this world. All was well.

I fell asleep, feeling blissfully happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a little bit behind on editing and my work schedule is packed at the moment. I will try to stick to the upload schedule as much as possible but might not be able to for the coming week - thank you for your patience :)


	12. Frederick (Part IV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> The innuendo continues in this chapter ;)

But now, it is morning and I am awake again. And a little at a loss how to proceed.

Because – as opposed to yesterday evening – I actually want to do something with the endless possibilities at my current disposal. Anne looks so beautiful it hurts, and I badly want to kiss her, touch her, do something, anything (it amazes me how Anne can reduce me to this teenage boy, with hormones all over the place, blood rushing to inappropriate places at inappropriate times and generally just making me feel wholly unprepared for the onslaught of violent desire coursing through my veins).

Some part of me feels like just going for it - she had been the one to instigate all of this in the first place and because of that, I feel a little entitled to act upon my feelings.

Another part of me is running wild in my head, terrified to the core – being intimate with Anne, having **sex** with Anne means letting my barriers down. It means making myself vulnerable because being with her and not being emotionally involved is out of the question; it’s either all in or nothing. And that’s scaring the shit out of me, my snake of pain awakening just a little bit, giving me a small, but distressing enough reminder I am walking on thin ice. Very thin ice. My heart still has a deep scar from the last time I let Anne in.

 _“Frederick, what it is about being on land that you fear so much_? _”_

This is what I fear. Being vulnerable. Offering myself and not knowing what I will receive in return. Showing another person every part of me, of my body, my soul, and not being able to hide. My snake hisses just at the thought of it.

And as if Anne has heard it, she wakes up. Squinting through her eyes, turning around, registering me next to her in the bed. Her eyes grow comically large, just for a moment, and then a beautiful smile graces her features. My heart lets out a euphoric cry at the sight and starts beating, fast and excitedly. My snake of pain is pushed into the background of my mind by this ecstatic feeling of being close to her, of finally, finally BEING with her (ten years I have wait for this, one fucking decade!!).

_“Good morning.”_

She whispers it into the room, letting it hang there. The light is still dancing through the air, enveloping her in a gentle glow and suddenly, we are back at the hospital the previous evening. Back in our small bubble of happiness and peace, of intimacy and calm.

_“Good morning.”_

My answer is just as soft and when she smiles, I give into my desire to make use of the endless possibilities. My barriers start falling one by one as I lean in to kiss her, to wrap my arms around her, and give myself over to her completely.

Two hours later we are lying next to each other, gloriously spent and exhausted in the most satisfying way.

We took our sweet time getting there, because, you know, ten years is a long time to forget things and I wanted to get to know every inch of her again (I also wanted to send all of my “with benefits” partners a thank you card for helping me step up my game, so to speak. I could show Anne that, even though she makes me feel like a teenage boy, my skill set is far superior to that).

_“Fred?”_

Her head on my chest moves a bit, I can feel her breasts pressing into my side as she turns to look at me.

_“What are we? To each other, I mean?”_

Here we go. Here comes the point of no return.

_(“What do you fear?”)_

I decide to opt for the diplomatic option, praying that my voice won’t betray me.

_“What would you like us to be?”_

It’s no use, my voice is shaking, and it sounds forced _._

( _“And she can feel your heartbeat anyway, you idiot,”_ a voice says in my head. It sounds suspiciously like Howard.)

_“I was being serious last night, you know.”_

Her fingers are drawing patterns on my arm and my stomach.

_“I want this.”_

She is speaking into the crook of my neck, her breath curling around my ear.

_“I want all of it. Of us.”_

This is said so softly that I can barely hear her.

With my heart in my throat, I answer _“Boyfriend is a bit of a juvenile title for me, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, I am quite an impressive specimen of a man and the term boyfriend just doesn’t do me justice.”_

I hold my breath, painfully so.

Anne looks at me funny, her face scrunched up in confusion, and then throws her head back and lets out the most gorgeous laugh. It makes my heart soar and I have to kiss her (kiss, not snog. I have some dignity. Snogging – if used correctly and, most importantly, rarely – has its uses, but most of the time I feel that there is a definite benefit to not having to fight your gag reflex because your partner's tongue is just waaaaay too enthusiastic about it all. And, you know, saliva. I am too old for that).

There is still laughter in her voice, as she says a little breathlessly _“Well then, you impressive specimen of a man, will you be my boyfriend?”_

_“And here I thought you’d never ask!”_

I could not have imagined a better start for the holidays. I will endeavour to keep Anne in her house, preferably in her bed, for the coming two weeks, and be the best version of a boyfriend I have to offer. We might occasionally visit Howard and Maggie or my family, but other than that, I am determined to make the most of this time for us.

It takes me almost two months to notice that we never talked about what she wanted to tell me while we were in the parking lot of the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we are halfway through this story and I have decided to take a two-week break. I want to do some proper editing and research and that takes time :) Also, another idea for a possible new fic hit me and I would like to explore that a little more. 
> 
> I will be back on October 25 with a new chapter and I am hopeful that I will be able to upload consistently after that :) 
> 
> Take care and stay safe!


	13. Jenny Smith (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you beautiful people out there – I’m back :) Thank you for your patience with me and my editing – this story is now complete and also edited from start to finish (yay!) :) COVID and all this craziness are really getting to me currently and I am very much looking forward to uploading twice a week again. 
> 
> So, without further ado, here comes my usual disclaimer: Even my two-week break did not turn me into her Highness, Jane Austen, and so all of the characters still belong to her. My story is not beta’d and I am not writing for profit. 
> 
> And now, please welcome Jenny Smith to the stage (and some very subtle P&P hints) :)

_“Benedict Collins stop telling others what to do and sit down. Right now, do you hear me?”_

Oh Lord, he is trying my patience. Just because his aunt – Catherine Something – has gifted him with a new book (why give him a book about _“Proper manners in high society”_ at his age anyway? It is not very likely that a nine-year-old will be following any of those rules, not to mention the fact that she apparently thinks that he is part of the “high society” of this country and, my dear Catherine, I can tell you – he is not), he now feels entitled to lecture everyone around him – including the teachers – about etiquette and courtesy.

_“But Ms. Smith, my aunt Catherine de Bourgh insists on –“_

_“Benedict, I promise you, once this lesson is over you can read your book to your heart's content, and if it makes you happy, you can tell me about it in the break. However, right now, it would be proper to sit down and do your vocabulary exercises, just like everybody else does. Am I understood?”_

_“Yes, Ms. Smith.”_

Finally!

The rest of the lesson passes without another major discussion between me and Benedict (I am honestly thinking about writing that Catherine de Bourgh a letter. She has been making my job harder than it needs to be for too long now with that damn book). The school bell can be heard twenty minutes later and I make my way to the teacher’s room to prepare for my next lesson and drink a well-deserved cup of coffee.

On my way there, I meet Anne and a gaggle of excited kids. All of them are asking Anne hundred-and-one questions, talking nineteen to a dozen and Anne is doing her utmost to address each child individually.

Anne has the patience of a saint and she has been a real blessing for our school. She treats every child with acceptance and respect and the children know they are welcome to come and talk to her about truly everything.

You have to know that our school is somewhat special. Five years ago, our headmaster and the county decided that we should be turned into an inclusive school - teaching children with and without special needs, with and without disabilities together. Our vision – and I wholeheartedly agree with it – is to create a safe and diverse place to learn and grow. A school is not only about education, it is about taking the long term perspective, about character development and growth. A school is also not only about the children, it is about the families, the community, and - in the long run - about our future society.

Modern science has proven that everybody – not only the children with identified special needs or disabilities – learns in a different way. Thus, every child has special needs, only that the needs of some are more obvious and visible than the needs of others. And it is high-time we react to this and stop treating our children (and our future!) like objects and machines, and start appreciating them for who they truly are while at the same time providing them with everything they are (or should be) entitled to. 

That said, one still has to deal with the fact the reality is rarely easy and straightforward and so we work with what we got and at a pace that might seem slow to some. And yet, little goes a long way and I believe we are headed in the right direction and will continue to develop and hopefully blossom into something wonderful.

The first two years of our transformation consisted mainly of planning and concept-drafting; long hours of negotiations with the county, the teachers, the parents, and – to some degree -the children themselves. We applied for funds for social work for our school and Anne was employed subsequently. That was a large step to success – being trained in social work means that Anne knows how to bridge the gaps in large, interdisciplinary teams and create productive structures and networks in our school. Inclusivity means thinking outside the box – and once you are out there, communication and teamwork are key.

Another part of Anne’s job is to facilitate an atmosphere that welcomes diversity and encourages democratic participation by our kids. She co-created the learning support unit (for every child), carries out regular workshops to sensitize them for each other’s needs, and offers support to the parents, teachers, and children when a crisis arises.

As you might know, there are other schools much more specialised in dealing with disabilities – which is precisely the difference between these schools and us. We do not encourage a “special treatment” as we firmly believe that a person with disabilities and/or special needs is first and foremost a person, and only then someone with special needs. These needs need to be taken care of, of course. Our focus is, however, not on the perceived deficits of these kids, but on giving them the place in society they should naturally be granted.

This concept - that disabilities and special needs are not inherent, unchangeable parts of human beings, but instead constructed obstacles by society, - is very much contradictory to our “harder, better, faster, stronger” approach to everything else in our society. And at first, only very few parents were brave enough to take the risk and enroll their children with disabilities or special needs in our school. It was a daunting task to persevere in face of these low numbers and keep on believing the concept and vision of our school could and would work.

We are still not where we want to be, but we have made definitive progress. More and more parents are filling out school applications and with the new sports project initiated by Sophie Croft, we have a real _“unique selling point”_ , so to speak.

I am deeply aware that our school is in a highly privileged position – not only do we have funds to employ countless wonderful people to work as support staff, but also still enough money for Anne as well as Fredrick and Howard. Many former colleagues of mine, now working in other schools, are envious and I am incredibly thankful that I can work here and be part of this small laboratory for social change.

A delighted squeal from a child close to me interrupts my thoughts and brings my attention back into the present moment.

Anne is listening attentively to what Becky has to tell her (Becky is a truly sweet girl, all blonde pigtails and large blue eyes, sitting in her pink wheelchair, with a tendency to cry at any given opportunity – right now she is gesticulating about something which has apparently upset her, judging by the tear tracks on her cheeks) when Frederick Wentworth rounds a corner and comes our way.

_“Jenny, how are you today?”_

He is cheerful, radiating an air of excitement and confidence.

 _“FREDERICK!!!”_ screams Noemi (another truly sweet girl, apart from the fact that her voice can reach tinnitus-inducing heights) and the gaggle of children around Anne instantly dissolves, only to regroup around Frederick.

The way they are looking up to him, jabbering a mile a minute, smiling and mirroring his excitement and cheerful air – it is absolutely adorable, and I just have to laugh.

_“I am more than fine today, thank you for asking Fredrick. How are you?”_

_“Well, apart from being surrounded by nasty brats, I am doing excellent.”_

His grin takes the sting out of the insult – still, the kids start protesting vehemently that they are not nasty brats, thank you very much, and how dare he laugh at them – which makes him laugh even more.

_“Alright then, you greedy little creatures, shall I take you to the gym with me?”_

The answer to that is a loud and animated _“YEEEEES!!!”._

 _“But what about Anne? Can she come too?”_ Little Becky says, her lower lip wobbling as tears start to gather in her eyes again.

_“Well, of course, Anne can come too, if she is free for the coming lesson?”_

I might have imagined it, but for a moment there I thought that Anne and Fredrick exchanged a look so full of affection and tenderness that I felt like I was intruding upon a private moment.

I shake my head a little, because this situation is as decidedly non-private as it can get, and it could just be my imagination playing tricks on me. I watch the two depart with our little barbarians in tow and smile to myself.

Anne and Fredrick Wentworth.

I will keep an eye on that. They could be very well suited and if indeed my imagination was not playing tricks on me, I would be incredibly happy for Anne. If anyone on the planet deserves happiness and love, it is this woman.

Thinking back to the beginning of the sports project, I rather thought Mr. Wentworth’s interest lay with Louisa. However, as we all know, she is now engaged to another man and maybe it is for the best this way. Fredrick and Anne, on the other hand – I think they would do very well together. All the better for Anne if she finally has found someone. If I am not mistaken, this school year hasn’t been very kind to her, and it would do her good to have some happiness in her life to banish all of the sadness and pain she seemed to be carrying with her for the past seven months.

Of course, all of this has not been too obvious. Anne is an extremely private person, and an introvert on top, so you need to look closely for the signs. Having worked with her for more than three years now, I do believe that Anne and I have a special kind of connection. We usually drink coffee together at least once a day and chat about the kids and anything new at the school. Sometimes, Anne reveals to me something of her private life and I treasure these conversations because I know that she very rarely allows herself to open up to someone else. I do not have children, but at times my relationship with Anne feels like the mother-daughter-relationship I could have had, had things been different.

This does not mean, however, that I am entitled to any information a mother of Anne would be entitled to. We are first and foremost colleagues, and only sometimes go out for dinner or a coffee outside of work.

It broke my heart a little when I saw her clearly struggling with something the previous months, losing weight, turning paler and more panic-stricken every day, and not telling me – or probably anyone - about it. Sophie and I took turns in being worried and we both tried to coax Anne into relieving herself of the burden she was carrying. To no avail, Anne was her polite and friendly self; insistently telling us not to worry, everything was fine.

How decidedly not fine she was, was revealed on the day she had that tremendous panic attack and needed to be taken to the hospital by Fredrick.

Maybe they had bonded over the experience. Maybe love was in the air.

The school bell reminds me that I am, in fact, not employed to muse over the love life of my colleagues, so I make my way to the teacher’s room (no time left for a coffee, sadly) and mentally prepare for another lesson with Benedict Collins.

Oh, hail Queen Catherine de Bourgh and her life lessons on proper manners, imparted on me, the lowly Jenny Smith, by her ever-loyal disciple Benedict Collins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taddaaa :) Thank you for indulging in a passion of mine (inclusive work at schools). 
> 
> Just to clarify because it might be confusing: Setting boundaries is – inclusive school or not – an integral part of educational work. And occasionally being annoyed by what you do is also very normal, even when you love your job and are passionate about it ;) Hence the annoyance of Jenny with regard to Benedict Collins.


	14. Jenny Smith (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> This is tagged hurt/comfort for a reason – prepare for some angst in the coming chapters ;)

Summer started early and brutally this year - high degree temperatures at the beginning of June are an exception in our part of the world _,_ and I desperately try to get the air in my apartment moving. Living in my attic apartment has its benefits - cool and comfy rooms in summer is not one of them. My excuse of a fan is standing in the far corner of the room, desperately trying to do its job and failing miserably.

Drinking a mouthful of water, I turn my attention back to the essays I am currently grading. My pupils had the task to write about their favourite person. We are learning adjectives at the moment and they were supposed to describe their favourite person in as much detail as they could muster.

Next up is Becky's essay.

_"My favourite person in our school is Anne. Anne is very beautiful. She has a huge smile and her teeth shine when she smiles. Anne always makes me feel better. Her hair is very beautiful too. It looks so fluffy sometimes, like the fur of my dog Donald. I also like Donald very much."_

I snort my mouthful of water right out through my nose (fortunately NOT onto the essay). Hiccupping and coughing, I curse myself and simultaneously have to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. 

Moments like these are exactly why I love my job. Having your hair compared to the fur of a pet - only a child can mean this as a compliment, but knowing that it is, indeed, intended as a compliment makes it all the more special.

As my thoughts turn to the object of Becky's praise, my mood sobers.

Anne…

I honestly believed she was getting better, in those weeks after the Easter holidays. For Anne's standards, one might even dare to say that she was happy. A small smile on her lips wherever she went, sometimes humming a quiet tune, a little spring in her step. She had gained weight again, giving her a healthy glow. Her happiness seemed to expand and fill a whole room when certain handsome Mr Wentworth came around and I was pretty sure that he was the cause of her improved mood.

Eight weeks forward I am not so sure about it anymore. Anne has paled again; lost the little bit of weight she had put on and retreated back into herself. One morning she came into the teacher's room looking positively green in the face. When I handed her a cup of coffee, she took a gulp only to spit it out again and dash for the bathroom. She mumbled something about a stomach bug and fixed herself a cup of camomile tea.

Her interactions with Fredrick have lessened, if I am not mistaken, and there is no more air of happiness when the two of them are in one room.

Fredrick has been looking more than a little confused, and lately, even hurt when Anne refuses to meet his gaze. I would laugh at his adorable puppy face if it wasn’t so heart rendering to witness the mixture of confusion and pain on his face, and the helplessness he exudes.

Towards other people and the kids, both of them are their usual professional selves, albeit a little less cheerful and happy than they used to be.

I wonder if anybody apart from me has noticed the change.

One week ago, I unwillingly witnessed an interaction between Fredrick and Anne that left me troubled. The children had long gone home, and only a few teachers where still there, recuperating from the battle of the day or preparing for the battle of the next (everyone here is passionate about this job, and at the same time it can feel rather like preparing for war if you have a long day).

I wanted to make some copies of a picture (we were just beginning with the adjective training and the description of things) and for that purpose, was headed down the corridor.

The door to Anne's office was open and I heard Fredrick say _"Annie, I don't understand this. Of course, we didn't have an explicit plan to do something together today. But given the fact that we did do something every Wednesday evening for the past two months, I just assumed today would be the same."_

I could **hear** his puppy face. It made me want to hug him and say _"There, there dear. We will make this alright."_

Anne, however, apparently wasn't planning to make it alright, because she pleaded _"Fred, believe me, I have an appointment and I can't come today. I promise we can meet tomorrow, but right now I really need to go."_

I accelerated, not wanting any of the two to know I had witnessed this conversation. When I came back into the staff room later, I found a stone-faced Fredrick sitting at a desk. He didn't even acknowledge my presence and stood up wordlessly as Howard Harville entered. The latter waved at me and mouthed _"I have no idea"_ as they left the room.

_"Oh, but I have an idea,"_ I thought darkly. This was getting worse.

Today, I had been privy to yet another encounter between Anne and Fredrick and I was starting to ask myself what I could do to stop this truly heart-breaking drama from unfolding.

Anne and I were having coffee in her office (well, I was drinking coffee. Anne is still sticking to her camomile tea) when Mr William Elliot entered. His regular visits to the school have lessened for a few weeks now and I was surprised to see him. He was carrying with him a bouquet of flowers. If I were pressed to describe his countenance (I, too, am endeavouring to practice my adjectives), I would have chosen the words "sheepish", "flustered" and "apprehensive".

Next to me, Anne turned stiff as a rod.

_"William. What a pleasure, what can I do for you?"_

Her flat tone belied her words.

Sighing, he scratched his head and started:

_"Anne, I came here because my girlfriend is very angry with me."_

Both Anne and I stared at him blankly. I could have sworn I heard Anne mutter _“You have a girlfriend?"_ under her breath (and with a sarcastic undertone too. Anne has a very dry sense of humour if you care to listen), but Mr Elliot obviously didn't hear her, as he continued:

_"Well, you see, I recently told her about the conversation we had back in February. The one where I mentioned to you that Lady Russell had told me to come and get to know you better."_

If possible, Anne got even stiffer next to me, and said: _"How could I forget?"_

This time, she had spoken loud enough for Mr Elliot to hear her and the sheepish aura around him intensified.

_"Yes, this is what I am here for. On that day, I came to tell you that even though Lady Russell thinks we could...."_ , he was searching for the right words, _"be great together, I actually came to tell you that I could not live up to that expectation. Simply because",_ and here he straightened up a little and a shy smile snuck onto his face, _"I am already great together with another woman."_

After an awkward pause, he added _"That woman is my aforementioned girlfriend, of course. Safia."_

I could literally feel the tension draining out of Anne. The room felt lighter, she was smiling back at him, and answered: _"That is very kind of you, to come back to tell me this."_

_"Well, for some reason Safia and I were speaking about that day just last week, and she asked me whether I had apologized already. She told me that your - forgive me if I'm wrong, but I believe you had a break down after I mentioned Lady Russell - anyway, Safia said – and that woman is always right - that it was probably caused by my insensitive approach to the topic and she has ordered me here – rightfully so, I might add - to deliver my apology in person – which is according to her the only way to do this properly and again, I agree - and invite you for dinner, whenever you are free."_

Christ, when did this guy breathe?

He cleared his throat uncomfortably _._

_"I am truly sorry, Anne, for letting this misunderstanding arise, and would like to offer you my sincerest apologies."_

His puppy face could almost rival that of Fredrick Wentworth. Almost. And I almost felt sorry for him, had it been for the fact that it had taken him more than three months to come back here and apologize.

Anne looked as if she was about to laugh but kept it together, just barely.

_"William, there is nothing to apologize for."_

_“Not true”_ , I thought. But I didn't say it. I just thought it. Very loudly.

Mr Elliot was so relieved to hear these words that he nearly dropped the flowers. His palms must have been sweaty indeed.

_"Please tell Safia that she has found a very brave partner and that I would be delighted to come to dinner sometime. Would you like to stay for coffee?"_

Now that his sheepish and apprehensive aura had disappeared, he looked much more comfortable, with a boyish look on his face that presented a weird contradiction to his suit. 

_"Thank you, but I need to get going."_

He grinned, then made an overly exaggerated bow and added: _"Might I hand these over to you, my lady?"_

The laugh she had been holding in bubbled up and out of Anne and she kept on laughing, as Mr Elliot gave her the flowers, kissed her hand with a flourishing gesture and said goodbye. He left an atmosphere of confused and bewildered delight in the room.

Smiling, I turned around, reaching behind me to grab my bag, as I needed to get to my next class as well when I felt Anne stiffen beside me yet again.

Wondering what on earth was happening now, I was about to ask Anne when I spotted Fredrick in the door. His face had the same stony expression I had witnessed in the staff room seven days prior and his entire body language screamed of some intense emotions being barely repressed.

_"Fred..."_

Anne's whisper was broken at the end, she was clutching the flowers in both hands.

He just stared at her. Then he turned and silently walked away.

_"Anne, are you...?"_ I tried to say, but she looked at me like a deer in the headlight, before saying _"Excuse me please."_

Throwing the flowers onto her desk, she ran out of the room.

I felt like there were so many elephants in the room being left behind, that it was no wonder Anne and Fredrick were suffocating underneath their weight.

_"Nothing I can do for them right now"_ , was my last thought when I exited the office.

And now it is 9 pm in the evening of that same day, and with a sigh, I turn my attention back to Becky.

_"Anne is really funny. She makes me laugh all the time. And when I cry, she always gives me a reason to smile. Anne -"_

The sound of my doorbell ringing startles me out of my concentration.

Well, this is odd. I didn't order any takeaway.

I make my way to the door.

It isn't some surprise take away.

Instead, a completely panicked and distressed Anne stands in front of my door.

_"I didn't know where else to go. Fred and I had a huge fight and I -"_ she breaks apart, sobbing, gasping for breath.

And for one evening, I get to be the mother I want to be for her.

Oh, how I wish that anything other than this gut-wrenching heartbreak could have brought us together this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on the side: English is not my first language and I couldn't quite figure out what the appropriate word for an apartment immediately under the roof is. Wikipedia told me that "attic" is used in the UK to describe it and I just hope that's true :D So don't worry, I am not locking Jenny Smith up in some dodgy place under the roof


	15. Frederick (Part V)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Evie89 already guessed it (yay :)) and because corona prevented me from visiting my family this weekend - here we go, have another chapter. Take care, everyone, and enjoy your weekend. 
> 
> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)

The streetlamps flash by, one by one. Like a cruel déjà-vu, I muse bitterly.

I am driving.

Anywhere.

Nowhere.

I have completely lost my orientation, and I am thankful for it.

Just drive, Frederick. Don’t think, just drive. Concentrate on the steering wheel, on the road. Focus on the sound of the tires, the repetitive melody and rhythm of the engine.

But of course, I have to think.

The sharp pain in my chest, the aching in my stomach, the incredible tension in my neck – all of them remind me what I am driving away from.

Running away from.

Ever since I got into the car, anything I can feel is pain. And fear. An incredible, all-encompassing fear, down to the last cell in my body, shaking me with its disbelief, roaring from the betrayal I had witnessed today.

She has done it - again.

I have lost her - again.

My snake of pain stabs me in the back, destroys every vein in my body, floods me with agony, bitterness, heartache, grief.

How could she do it?

My mind keeps going in circles, replaying the last hours, again and again, coming to the same crushing conclusion, each and every time.

After those two weeks of Easter holidays, I was elated. I was back together with the woman I loved, the woman I have never stopped loving for the last ten years of my life (and really, was there even a life before her?) and it felt magnificent. I was happy. Disgustingly so, as Howard laughingly told me. Those weeks are among the most beautiful of my life.

How could she do it?

I should have known. Knowing our history, I could have known that it was not to be. That when we were this happy, something dreadful was about to happen.

And it did.

Slowly, and gradually, something crept into our life and until today, I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was that Anne steadily and increasingly withdrew from me.

At first, it was just our conversations. As much as she was open and free with me at the beginning, she began holding back.

Just a little. Then a little more.

Until we reached the point this week where we were almost back to our polite, stilted conversations from our initial meeting.

I didn’t suspect anything at first, Anne had just started going to therapy again and I thought that maybe she just needed a bit of space. Expressing herself doesn't come naturally to her, she is rarely open about her feelings and until recently I had thought that I was the one exception to that rule. That with me she could talk, be open, and share whatever was on her mind.

My snake of pain stabs me again at the thought, short, quick, merciless cuts, and gashes right into my chest cavity.

I try to take a deep breath.

It hurts.

After a while, she did not only withdraw from our conversations. She had less and less time for me, having appointments she couldn’t tell me about, consoling me that we would surely meet another day. I stopped staying overnight at her cottage, staying more with my parents again.

Needless to say, that our physical interactions, the intimacy we had both so reveled in during Easter, ceased as well.

We stopped having sex. We stopped cuddling. We stopped kissing.

This week was the first week since February where I haven’t touched Anne at all. She seemed to recoil from my touch, seemed to be scared, or maybe even disgusted by it.

I constantly felt like I was overstepping her boundaries when I tried to instigate touching even infinitesimally. And of course, I stopped touching her when I noticed it. The last thing I wanted was to force myself onto Anne.

Bitterness and bile rise in my throat at the thought of it.

My throat feels raw.

Of course, I tried to do something about all of this. Once I noticed, I desperately tried to find out what was wrong. I tried to talk to her about it. I tried to give her more space. I tried to offer her comfort. I tried and tried, and nothing worked. The woman I love so much that I would do anything for her rebuffed me in all of my efforts and told me that _“everything is fine, Fred.”_.

It made me want to scream. My snake of pain, the barriers I had so painstakingly built for the protection of my heart, all of them started coiling in me, accumulating tension, like a spring being loaded. Each new rejection from Anne intensifying the tension, winding the spring evermore together.

And today, after seeing her with that William Elliot, something snapped.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I had made myself vulnerable, I had let Anne into the space in my heart I could only ever fill with her, and my worst fear had come true.

She rejected me.

I offered her my love, my soul, my life, and she didn’t want it. Apparently, I was wrong in my judgment that she loved me just as much as I love her. Because you don’t do this if you truly love someone.

She had laughed with William Elliot. She had taken his flowers and let him kiss her hand. Jealousy had reared its ugly head at the sight and punched me in my stomach.

I couldn’t breathe. And so, I ran. To my car, to the parking lot.

Anne followed me. When I was about to get into the car, she shouted _“Fred! Fred, wait!”_

Oh great, I thought. Is it not enough to humiliate and reject me once, do you need to do it publicly as well?

_“Fred, please, don’t go. Please, let me explain!”_

Her eyes were wide, she was panting.

But I did not want her to explain. I was done hearing the same thing over and over again, that it _“was nothing”_ , that everything was _“alright, perfectly fine”_.

_“What could you possibly have to say to me?”_

I could feel my anger taking over. It had been restless in the back of my mind, like a caged animal, walking from one side of my mind to another, readying itself to strike.

_“Please, Fred, it wasn’t what it looked like.”_

_“NOT WHAT IT LOOKED LIKE? And what did it look like, pray tell me? For weeks, for WEEKS, ANNE, I have been trying to understand what is going on. I have tried to talk to you, I have given you space, I tried to comfort you, nothing, NOTHING I TRIED WORKED. NOTHING.”_

I was shouting by then, my anger breaking free, my snake of pain coiling and roaring. My hands shaking, adrenalin coursing through my body.

_“Maybe I have learned the English language wrong, or maybe I have just thoroughly misheard what you said that day at the hospital. I always thought that the meaning of the words “I want all of this” encompassed somehow being with each other. I thought they meant we would work together to form a functioning relationship. But looking back, I must have misunderstood you. Because apparently the woman I thought of as my girlfriend is better off without me, better off not talking to me, avoiding me at all cost, and trying her very best TO NOT BE WITH ME!”_

My voice broke at the end, resulting in a cracked shout.

_“You have no idea, do you?”,_ I continued in a raw whisper, my anger overcome for a moment with the sheer force of my grief, _“You have no idea how much -”_ I had to close my eyes to say it, but say it I would, _“how much I love you. You pierce my soul, Anne, and at the beginning of this I thought I could live with that pain as long as you felt the same. But apparently”,_ my anger took over again, _“I was mistaken in that. There is no way you feel the same for me. If you felt the same, we would not be having this conversation.”_

Anne had watched me with tears gathering in her eyes, and when I said that she could not feel the same, she flinched so violently that a part of me regretted saying it. But that part was quickly drowned in my anger, in my pain.

If she only felt a fraction of the pain I felt, then it was well deserved.

_“Fred”_ , she gulped down air, tried to breathe, _“Fred – I – I - I’m pregnant.”_

Come again?! She could have just as well kicked me in the gut.

Anne? Pregnant? How?

I gaped at her while my mind frantically searched for an explanation.

We used protection! Almost all the time. There only had been one time during those Easter holidays, late at night, both of us desperate and eager; Anne had just had her period (those two days were basically the only two days we didn’t make use of our “sex holiday”, as Sherlock Holmes would call it), so it was biologically impossible that anything could have happened.

True, when she asked me whether I thought I could pull out before, - you know, - and I answered with a positive, only to, later on, realise that it is nearly impossible to pull out if your orgasm takes you by surprise and you try to tear the body of your girlfriend away while your hips are slamming forward in ecstasy (that was the most confusing orgasm of my life), I didn’t quite live up to the expectation.

But it didn’t matter, she had just had her period (and was very happy about it; her cycle had been highly irregular the last months and any period was better than no period according to Anne) and it was biologically impossible that I impregnated her.

And if I wasn’t the father, then who else –

Cold fear gripped me.

Her appointments.

Her withdrawal.

Her refusal to tell me where she was going.

The encounter with William Elliot today.

If I wasn’t the father, then someone else must be.

I couldn’t take any more pain – my heart tumbled down into an abyss of numbness, of icy cold and darkness.

_“Who is the father?”_ I managed to croak.

_“What?”_

I couldn’t believe her. She looked at me with incomprehensibility in her eyes.

_“I said: Who. Is. The. Father?”_

My anger, the caged animal, had slashed out again, wanting to hurt her, wanting to see her in pain.

_“What do you mean who is the father? There is – I don’t understand – how-“_

Suddenly her eyes widened.

_“Oh my God - you think that I – that it is not – that I would -“_

Her face went completely blank and colourless.

I turned around.

_“There is nothing here for me worth staying for.”_

I entered my car and left.

I have been driving ever since.


	16. Howard (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Trigger warning for description of panic attack and mention of miscarriage

My little baby girl is crying again. I agree with her, that shaking, pale man standing on the far side of the kitchen and shooting daggers with his eyes is enough to make anyone cry.

_“Hush, sweetie, it’s alright. He doesn’t mean it, I promise. He will do you no harm.”_

Fred doesn’t even appear to have heard me.

It’s 3 am in the morning and he materialized on my doorstep half an hour ago. I had been awake anyway; having a small baby has taught me that sleep is more valuable than gold, and even more difficult to get your hands on.

Rocking my precious angel, a little from side to side, and still hushing her, I try to take a good look at Fred without him noticing me. I don’t have to worry, though. He would not have noticed me looking at him even if I had stood in front of him naked, wearing opera glasses, with a parrot on my shoulder (as I said, sleeping is difficult at the moment, so please don’t question my analogies). Fred is staring at the floor, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, not registering a thing that is happening around him.

_“Could you hold Emily for a second?”_

I have observed that having a baby in their arms increases the handling of an adult human being by 110%, and so, without waiting for a reply from Fred, I press my baby daughter into his hands and start making tea.

She keeps fussing and grumbling and then, to my immense relief, Fred starts to react to her. His right hand hesitantly curls around her back, pressing her close to the crook of his neck, supporting her head, his other hand coming to envelop her legs. He lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, leaning into my baby girl, gently starting to rock from side to side.

There we go, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

But I underestimated the power she has over him because even with his eyes remaining resolutely closed, I can see the tears making their way down his cheeks. Whatever happened (he hasn’t said a word to me ever since I opened the door), must have been tremendous.

I finish preparing the tea and walk over to where he is sitting. Putting a cup of the steaming hot liquid in front of him, I say _“Tell me.”._

And so, he tells me.

Stuttering, drawing deep and painful breaths in between. Calming himself again whenever he is distressing my beautiful girl too much. Crying. Staring numbly into nothingness and then resuming his tale. My heart aches for him.

To know that my advice all those months ago _(“you will be miserable without her and might get hurt being with her”)_ turned out to be so true - I want to punch myself for saying that to him.

And then my world turns upside down because Anne is pregnant.

Pregnant, you heard me!

And the child is not his?!

Something is decidedly **not** right here. It has to be. There is no way Anne would do this to Fred. Anne is a kind and gentle person, always looking out for others, intending to heal, not to hurt. It is simply not possible that she cheated on Fred, let alone got pregnant from another man.

_“Are you one hundred percent sure that there is no way you could be the father?”_

Fred’s face is ashen; and he just nods. Pressing his nose into my daughter's back, breathing her in.

_“Listen”,_ I contemplate how to phrase my thoughts, _“when Maggie and I were trying to conceive –“_ he looks at me warily.

_“Yes?”_

_“Well, I learned a thing or two about the menstrual cycle.”_

_“I do know how babies are ‘made’, thanks a lot Howard.”_

_“I said ‘Listen’. Because maybe I do know something you don’t.”_

His face makes a kind of _“go ahead if you think you know it better”_ expression and I continue.

_“Before Maggie got pregnant with this beauty here, she miscarried. Twice. No huge miscarriages. She didn’t get her period when she was supposed to, the pregnancy tests were positive. And then, after four to six weeks, she wasn’t pregnant anymore. It’s called a chemical pregnancy.”_

Fred looks at me surprised.

_“I didn’t know that,”_ he says in a quiet voice.

_“Well, she didn’t want to advertise it. And it was painful. Knowing that there might have been a chance of us having a baby and losing it so soon afterward.”_

I pause to drink some tea and let that information sink in. Fred is still rocking Emily from side to side, gently. He would make a great father, I am sure of that.

Conversations in these late hours of the night always feel more intimate to me. The night outside is pitch black, the only light in the room coming from the lamp above the stove. The world seems more peaceful like this, somehow more soft and slow, blanketing us in a merciful silence.

_“Anyway, during those doctor’s visits, I learned that women do not only bleed when they have their period. Bleeding can happen from all sorts of other things as well, like ovulation, or from a miscarriage like in Maggie’s case. The doctor told us basically that the menstrual cycle of a woman reflects her general health. If she is healthy and fine, then her cycle will usually be regular and consistent. If the woman is facing stress, however, this might be reflected in her menstrual cycle, for example in irregular bleeding. Stress can be all sorts of things. In order to conceive, she advised us to especially avoid emotional and mental stress and take care that Maggie doesn’t lose more weight because significant weight loss signals the body that there are no resources available for growing and nurturing a child. A body that is too stressed will focus on surviving, and not on procreating.”_

For a moment, the only thing you can hear is my daughter hiccupping in her sleep, while drooling over Fred’s shoulder. It is adorable.

_“So, you think that – that there is a possibility Anne misinterpreted the bleeding?”_

_“She was under a lot of pressure ever since you started working close to her, wasn’t she? Think about it, Fred. I know it is damn hard, but just for a moment, push your anger and your hurt to the side and look at the situation like I see it. There is no way Anne would have cheated on you. I just can’t see that happening.”_

His face is taking on that thunderous look again, so I continue hurriedly.

_“And let’s just for the sake of it assume that she didn’t have a period, and instead, maybe her ovulation caused the bleeding. Because then it is entirely possible that you are, in fact, the father of that child. Hell, you managed to nail a once in a lifetime chance.”_

Fred doesn’t appreciate my humour.

_“What does this matter, Howard? Even if the baby is mine”_ , he is fighting to keep his voice even, _“Anne doesn’t want me. She made that very clear to me in the last few weeks.”_

_“I **refuse** to believe that. Anyone who saw the two of you in one room would have been stupid to deny the obvious happiness she exuded only through looking at you.”_

_“Stop it, Howard.”_

The whispered words are full of anguish and sorrow.

I shake my head.

_“It’s just – only two weeks ago I had a conversation with Anne. About Fanny.”_

It is weird how unexpectedly grief can choke your throat and make seemingly easy tasks like breathing and talking nearly impossible. But this is not about me, this is about my best friend being hurt by something that can only be a massive misunderstanding. It has to be. So, I persevere and, after taking a moment to find my voice again, resume my story.

_“Louisa had just entered the staff room and I overheard her talking to Anne about her fiancé”._

Fred nods in understanding. He knows how it has been difficult for me to watch the former fiancé of my sister getting engaged to Louisa so quickly after Fanny died. Well, quickly might be relative. But to me, the past one and a half years could just as well not exist, so fresh is my grief over her death still. And somehow, it is hard for me to believe that James feels differently. That he could so readily agree to give his heart, his life, to another woman (and be it someone as wonderful and, maybe, even well-suited for him as Louisa) after only such a short period of time since the death of the love of his life. I don’t think I could ever recover if I lost Maggie. Which is why I need to help Fred get back to Anne and get them talking again, because these two are made for each other, and for some reason, they end up hurting each other in the worst possible way.

_“I don’t know how, but Anne must have noticed my discomfort. She started to draw me into a conversation and before I knew it, I was telling her about Fanny and James and all that mess.”_

There is a ghost of a smile on Fred’s face.

_“I know what you mean.”_

_“I was a bit emotional and told her that a man should not react this way. That somehow, most of the women I know are able to move on from breakups or heartache quite quickly, at least to an outside observer, and that most of the men I know are not able to move on at all, that they keep on loving that woman, regardless of the breakup.”_

That wary look appears on his face again.

_“Have you told Maggie this theory?”_

_“Of course not. She would lecture me on social expectations women are faced with, how women are forced to be more mature through their upbringing, and the limited capabilities us male individuals possess to deal with an emotional disaster. And then my theory of the lone male who keeps on loving forever would be ruined, I would need to rethink my opinion, and where would be the fun in that?”_

_“You two deserve each other. You really do.”_ That ghost of a smile is back.

_“Well, Anne also lectured me. Not quite so thoroughly, but she vehemently argued that women loved at least as passionately as men do. And that women keep on loving, even if reconciliation is unthinkable, even if all hope is lost.”_

I have Fred’s full attention now.

_“When did you have that conversation?”_

_“Two weeks ago.”_

His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows.

_“What am I supposed to do? Even if all of this is true, even if she still – even if the child is mine, then why did she not tell me? Why did she keep it to herself?”_

I am spared the indignity of having to admit that I can’t answer that by Fred’s phone vibrating in his pocket. Insistently. Unrelentingly.

Hesitantly, he retrieves it from his pocket and stares at the screen. Looking over his shoulder, I can see that it is an unknown number to him (Fred is a stickler for tidiness and neatness, and his phone contacts are no exception. Every person Fred knows is methodically saved with first name, surname, birthday, address and phone number).

_“Won’t you get that?”_

Slowly, he hands over my daughter to me and picks up his phone.

_“Frederick Wentworth speaking.”_

In the stillness of the night, the slightly distorted and tinny voice can be heard through the entire kitchen, even though the phone is not on speaker.

_“Frederick, this is Jenny Smith speaking. You know, Jenny, from school?”_

_“Of course, Jenny, what can I do for you?”_

Even in the middle of the night and after a truly harrowing evening, Mr. Wentworth is all politeness, I muse. I probably would have answered with a hearty _“Why the FUCK are you calling me at 4 am in the morning, wanker?”_

_“I am so sorry to wake you, but I needed to reach you urgently. I am at the hospital currently”,_ Fred tenses, a muscle in his neck twitching, _“and I am calling you because you are listed as Anne Elliot’s emergency contact.”_

Holy crap!

I look sharply at Fred. He is white as a sheet.

_“What do you mean listed as her emergency contact? What happened? Is Anne alright? Why is she in hospital?”_

The undertone of panic increases with every question.

_“Anne came to talk to me at my apartment around 9 pm. She was very agitated and distressed. I managed to calm her down for a few hours and she slept on my couch until about an hour ago. I found her screaming on the floor, apparently in the grasp of another panic attack. I presume you know that she has been having panic attacks quite frequently for the recent weeks?”_

_“I – what?”_

Oh, Anne. Why did you not tell him? At least I surmise from the look on his face that this is news to him.

_“Frederick, is there any possibility that you can come here? Anne hit her head repeatedly during the panic attack – the paramedics told me that this can happen during an attack of such magnitude. Because of the pregnancy, they were not able to give her the usual medication to calm her down, and they will keep her here until tomorrow, just to make sure that everything is well. They would prefer if her emergency contact would come and stay with her, rather than just a colleague.”_

_“I am on my way.”_

Fred terminates the call.

Shaking like a leaf he turns to me. Wordlessly, I start to search for Emily’s jacket and then strap my daughter into her infant carrier.

_“You are in no condition to drive, Fred.”_


	17. Anne (Part VI)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all you beautiful people out there! :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos in the last few days - you have no idea how rewarding and motivating it is to get these AO3 notifications and then read all of the wonderful things you are saying :) So THANK YOU. And here we go, another angsty chapter. Bear with me, there shall be fluff and happiness sometime soon ;) Also, a huge shout-out to Grammarly for correcting my 71,928 punctuation mistakes in this chapter :D
> 
> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Trigger warning for description of panic attack

I can hear voices. A male voice speaking in low, hushed tones. A woman’s voice murmuring an answer. Someone is coughing. Gasping for breath in between with a rattling sound. 

My body feels …blurry. Everything aches. My left-hand feels like it was stung by something. Gingerly, I try to flex my fingers. They feel too big, swollen somehow. The stinging sensation intensifies.

I am so very tired.

My limbs are so heavy.

I will just leave my hand be.

But where am I?

I try to open my eyes, I want to ask someone what’s happening. But my eyelids feel like lead, the corners of my eyes clotted together and I give up.

My head hurts.

I can feel a buzzing feeling, deep, insistent, and unpleasant. Like a swarm of bees right at the base of my skull, crawling its way up to the crown of my head. The voices in the background continue, and I really want to understand what is happening. But the bees are too loud.

Sleep wraps me in a warm embrace and whispers _“Later”._

I sink into blissful unconsciousness.

_“Ms. Elliot? Ms. Elliot, can you hear me?”_

A cool hand touches my forehead; the stinging in my left hand intensifies sharply, pain shooting up my arm and I tear my eyes open. The blurred outlines of a face come into a clearer focus as my eyes adjust to the light in the room.

_“Ahh, there you are. Hello Ms. Elliot. How are you feeling?”_

The face belongs to a woman, she’s wearing a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck, and a chart in the hand not touching my forehead. A doctor then. She beams at me and starts fiddling with the remote control for the bed. The upper part of it starts to move jerkily and my back is pushed into an upright position. Angry bees tumble through my head and bounce off the walls in my skull. It hurts.

_“Stop that,”_ I mumble. At least, that’s what I aim for.

What comes out of my mouth is more of an abstruse gurgling sound.

_“There, no reason to stress yourself. Can you nod or shake your head for me?”_

It is an effort, but I manage.

_“Wonderful, Ms. Elliot.”_

The doctor turns around.

_“Mr. Wentworth, Ms. Elliot is conscious and responsive. We will give her another hour or two, that should do the trick. The infusion will last for the next sixty minutes as well, and if Ms. Elliot shows no signs of further distress, you are ready to go home. I will ask the nurse to stop by with some water to drink in a few minutes.”_

Wentworth…

Mr. Wentworth…

My tired mind struggles with the implications of this name, the significance it has for me.

_“Thank you.”,_ the low male voice from before replies, and at that, the significance of the name comes rushing back to me.

Fred!

The beaming doctor leaves with the promise to come back in an hour and I am finally awake enough to take in my surroundings. And hopefully understand why Frederick is with me at a hospital.

Carefully, I raise my gaze to the space opposite my bed.

A white wall stares back at me, with a small, pitiful picture somewhere in the middle of it.

No Fred there.

My eyes wander to the left, and they meet a kind of separating screen. I am in a multi-bedroom, then. That might explain the coughing I could hear earlier. My eyes focus on the infusion stand next to my bed. They follow the long tubes coming out of the infusion bag until they reach my left hand. That is where the stinging comes from.

A needle is inserted into the back of my hand; I can see the metal shimmering below my skin. I trace the outline of it with my eyes and take in the rectangular looking mass of tape holding it in place.

It gives me goosebumps just to look at it.

Instinctively, I imagine what it must have felt like when the needle was inserted. How it must have felt when the sharp metal punctured my skin. The goosebumps intensify and I decide to look at something else. I want to distract myself from the fact that there is a foreign object inserted into my body. That my body needed to be damaged in order to create an entrance for the liquid dripping steadily from the infusion bag right into my vein. Be it only a three centimetres needle, it feels wrong to have it there. 

The only option left for looking is my right side. I brace myself because somehow a feeling in my stomach tells me that things between me and Fred are not as they should be. Something happened, it’s gnawing right at the edge of my consciousness, slipping out of my grasp every time I try to grab it.

Turning my head slightly to the right, my eyes finally find what they have been looking for. In the background, I can see the door to the room, and a small wardrobe next to my bed. In front of the wardrobe is a chair. He is seated in the chair.

_“How are you feeling?”_

His eyes look at me with worry, his voice still low and a little hoarse.

It takes a great effort to activate my vocal cords and form the word _“Thirsty.”._

_“Of course. I will call for the nurse.”_

As he busies himself with the button to call for assistance, I take a good look at him.

There is stubble on his face. His clothes are rumpled and creased as if he had slept in them. The skin on his face has a slightly greyish colour, the deep and dark circles under his eyes exuding an air of fatigue and exhaustion. Our eyes meet accidentally, and the look in his eyes brings tears to mine.

He looks harrowed.

Before I can ask what happened, a nurse bustles in. He is very bright and chirpy and offers me a glass of water as if it was the most delicious wine in the world. It brings a small smile onto my face, the way his countenance fills the whole room with cheerfulness. He assists me with drinking, the water a balm to my sore throat, and then, he vanishes as suddenly as he appeared.

Fred is not looking at me anymore. His hands fidget, his right leg bobbing up and down at such a fast pace that it makes me dizzy.

_“What happened?”,_ I finally manage to croak.

_“You don’t remember?”_

When I shake my head (the buzzing intensifies again), he lowers his gaze back down to the floor.

He swallows and then says _“We had a fight. I left. You went to Jenny’s. She called me last night at around 4 am. You had a panic attack that left you unresponsive on her floor. You hit your head during the attack, repeatedly. The paramedics discovered several bumps on the side and front of your head. Apparently, this can happen during intense panic attacks, it is a form of self-harm. They couldn’t give you the normal medication because of –“_ his voice breaks. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat, and continues _“because of the baby. They decided to keep you here until you are stable again.”_

His words finally bring back the memories skirting at the edge of my consciousness. An onslaught of images, sounds, feelings come crashing down on me; I try to prepare for its impact and am surprised when I feel like a mere spectator to it.

_“You are still under the influence of the sedative they gave you. The doctor told me that you will probably need a day or two until you are completely yourself again.”_

Ahhh. That explains that.

Fred looks even more uncomfortable than before.

_“The doctors have ordered you to stay at home for the rest of the week and take a break. Just to make sure those blows to your head really did not result in a major concussion. Jenny suggested that I – that –“_ , closing his eyes, he finishes, _“that I take you home and stay with you, at the minimum until tomorrow morning. You shouldn’t be alone, she said.”_

There is a silence in the room, his words hanging between us, floating indecisively, not knowing where to go.

_“After everything that happened yesterday, I could understand if having me around you is the last thing you want at the moment. So, I am leaving the choice to you. Howard offered that you could come to their house instead.”_

He makes a motion as if to get up, then thinks better of it and stays seated. Slowly, he lifts his palms to rub at his neck, then lets his head hang low, between his arms.

I have to strain myself to hear his next words.

_“I will not force myself upon you.”_

I close my eyes.

The sedative is really working its magic as I am still feeling calm. Eerily so. My self from yesterday would have immediately started to work on the next panic attack. But then, my past-self did not have the benefit of being strapped to an IV at the hospital and thus being connected to a steady flow of _“I don’t give a shit_ ”.

Do I want Fred to come with me? Do I want to be around him?

Everything is just so confusing.

Or it should feel like a huge amount of confusion and then again it strangely doesn’t feel like anything at all. I can’t think straight; my lack of emotions hampering my decisions making process. No voice inside my head shouting at me what to do.

My pregnancy!

This thought rouses a little emotion. I am still pregnant, we are fine and (more or less) healthy, thank God. And if being alone is dangerous for us, then I will do everything in my power to prevent that.

My decision is made.

Stretching my left hand (Ouch, damn it!) to reach for the remote for my bed, I manage to move the top end a little higher still.

_“I would appreciate it very much if you could come with me.”_

My voice is still a little scratchy and my throat hurts after speaking. Fred just nods.

He gets up and says _“I’ll call Howard. He offered to pick us up because – as I – well, he will be here.”_

I wonder what he actually wanted to say. But the exertion of being awake and actually thinking and speaking has taken its toll and I sink back into the warm embrace of sleep.


	18. Anne (Part VII)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Hope you are doing fine - have an awesome Monday :) (I know Mondays tend to not be awesome, so go take some awesomeness from here and sprinkle it on top of your day and see what happens ;) )

_“Thanks, mate. I will text you tomorrow.”_

Fred’s hand squeezes Howard's shoulder as he mumbles his thanks. Howard says his goodbye to him, then kisses me on the cheek, and gets back into the car. He looks worried.

Well, I would be worried too, if I were him. I am pretty sure he knows about Fred and me and all that this encompasses. Leaving two people in each other’s company who just had had a tremendous fight (which might have induced a divorce if the circumstances were different) and who were now forced together by the mental unstableness of one of the parties - that did not sound like a good idea to me as well _(“But hey, look, your humour is coming back”_ , my inner social worker remarks. Yeah, well, lucky me, I guess. And welcome back, my inner monologue, happy to see you all well and up to speed).

The sedative has been wearing off for some time now. After my second “nap” at the hospital, Fred had woken me gently, with that beaming doctor standing next to him. She started the discharge process, handing me some paperwork I only managed to fill out because Fred helped me. Then I was allowed to put my own clothes back on (up to that point I hadn’t even realised that I was wearing a hospital gown) – this time, the cheerful nurse helped me out.

By the time we were finally ready to leave the building, Howard was already waiting outside in his car. He smiled at us, even though it did not reach his eyes, and assisted me to get into the car. Fred took the back seat.

We drove back to my cottage in silence. I was too tired to care.

The soothing, repetitive sounds of the car lulled me into a daze, and I let my mind wander.

Fred and I would be alone soon. And I would need to talk to him. He was not fine. Anything but, in fact. And it was my fault.

I had destroyed us, yet again; had stabbed him in the back with my refusal to communicate, to let him in, to talk about this downright terrifying mess I was in.

Even in my haze of panic last night, when I practically ran to Jenny because I feared being alone (you have no idea how scary a generalized anxiety disorder is. I have been afraid before, I have lost my mother and my fiancé at some point in my life, but I have never experienced fear on a magnitude like this. I didn’t know that my mind held a bottomless pit of horror I could tumble into, and not come out of again), I knew that I owed him at least an explanation.

His reaction and subsequent conclusion to my pregnancy were his own, but I would need to own up to the consequences of my miscommunication. Oh Lord, why did I not talk to him sooner? Well of course I knew why, but **why** did I listen to that voice in my head instead of being brave and trusting him?

After Fred had stopped flirting with Louisa, we had been in each other’s company more often (often being relative. If you start of at _“minimal encounters whatsoever”,_ even a slight increase in numbers could deserve the label _“often”_ ). Howard was always close by, being best friends and direct colleagues with Fred and all that.

One day, both of us (Howard and me, that is) witnessed Fred dealing with a bunch of overexcited and hyperactive kids. Sophie had joined us at some point and all of us marvelled at the patience and skill Fred was projecting in handling this nerve-grating experience.

_“He honestly is doing this much better than I expected”_ Sophie had remarked with a laugh.

_“Right? It surprises me every time too”_ , Howard responded grinningly, _“Especially taking into account that he basically started all of this because we bullied him into it, Fred-“I-would-rather-die-than-have-kids”-Wentworth is doing an excellent job here.”_

And that is how I learned that Fred didn’t want children.

It did not strike me as significant at the time, why should it have? Fred and I were not even speaking with each other; a relationship, let alone one where we would consider having a baby together, was as unlikely as Voldemort ever getting a proper nose.

Oh, the irony.

I would have laughed if the reality of my pregnancy had not been so… well, real. No matter how hard you try, it is very difficult to ignore the way a pregnancy changes you and your life. Your body is no longer just **your** body, you turn into a factory for human body parts, and let me tell you that is one hell of a job. You are no longer your body’s first priority, the child and the pregnancy come first, always. Everything hurts in regular intervals, even your pinkie toes are somehow contributing to this “body-building” and thus feel entitled to hurt and make you feel miserable. Feeling nauseous all the time can turn every day into a trying experience, and no amount of toothpaste seems to get rid of the ever-lingering slimy feeling on your tongue after vomiting.

After taking the tenth pregnancy test (all of them positive, of course) and arguing with myself why a pregnancy was **just** **not** **possible** and that I had probably just caught an incredibly persistent stomach bug, I finally went to the doctor.

And there I learned that menstrual bleeding is, in fact, not always menstrual bleeding. That listening to your body and taking it seriously might help you a lot with not getting pregnant; especially, if you hadn’t had a proper menstrual cycle for more than eight months (why don’t they teach this kind of thing in school? Why do I need to get pregnant in order to learn that ovulation can cause bleeding, that mental stress can destroy your menstrual cycle like a torpedo which – in turn – can aggravate your already existing crisis?).

But these questions were all at the back of my mind, really, because I was trying to come to terms with the fact that in a few months, I was going to be a mother. And that the man who had fathered this new life (because of course he is the father. Who else should it be?), the man I loved more than anything in this world, would not want this child _(“Fred-I-would-rather-die-than-have-kids”_ ).

The brave option would have been to tell him. To talk to him about the fact that even though it was the last thing in the world he wanted, he would be a father. And that I was prepared to be a single mum, regardless of his opinion (I am old enough, I have a stable income and I had always imagined that I would be a mother at some point in my life). That he was welcome to be a father if he wanted to be, but that it was no problem should he not want that.

As you already know, this is not the option I chose.

No, I chose to fall back onto a behavioural pattern I had taken to ever since my mother died – if I don’t talk about it, then the others won’t know something is wrong and eventually, everyone will forget there ever was a problem. Because if you don’t have a problem, then nobody can blame you for being the root of the problem, regardless of whether you truly are responsible for it.

Of course, being pregnant at some point becomes a problem only a truly blind person can overlook (and even they can feel stuff) and so my panic attacks, which had gotten less frequent ever since I started therapy, picked up again.

Hello, generalized anxiety disorder, here I come.

One of my teachers during my social work training used to say, _“Some people need to reach rock bottom in order to let go of behaviour that isn’t serving them. Even if it might look contradictory from the outside to them, it makes perfect sense to hold onto this behaviour as long as possible. It will surprise you what it takes for people to change behavioural patterns they are used to, how persistent these patterns can be. Because trying out something new might be more terrifying than holding on to the pain you are used to.”_

I had thought I had reached rock bottom after The Panic Incident ™, but apparently, I hadn’t.

Because if I had, then I would have recognised that my current behaviour – being pregnant, having panic attacks, and not telling a soul about all of this, including my boyfriend – was not serving me at all. I didn’t recognise it. I let my panic overwhelm me, and let my previous experience guide me –withdraw, don’t talk, and then maybe you are safe. 

But not anymore.

My behaviour was not only affecting myself, no, it was also affecting the love of my life and the life growing inside me and I should and would take responsibility. No more hiding, for the sake of my future family.

And for the sake of my relationship with Fred, if only to end it in dignity, and not shying away anymore from the inevitable confrontation about my pregnancy.

And so my mind is made up when we finally arrive at my cottage and Fred and I stand – yet again – awkwardly in front of my door.

After an eternity (it must have been. Or the sedative has not worn off as much as I thought), I finally manage to open the front door and we are – yet again – standing in my dark hallway.

_(Have no fear.)_

My mother’s words resonate in my head as I turn to Fred.

_“Listen”,_ I begin, _“there are a few things I would like to talk to you about. I have a feeling that none of us will sleep well tonight anyway, so maybe – maybe we could talk now?”_

I can practically feel Fred steeling himself for what is to come. It makes my fingers itch with the need to smooth his frown, to caress the deep lines of worry and exhaustion in his face away.

_“Do you want to sit down?”_

I smile and nod gratefully at him, belatedly realising that a nod is hard to see in a hallway without light.

_“Yes, that would be good, I think.”_

Stiffly, he turns around and I follow him into the kitchen.

_(Have no fear.)_


	19. Sophie (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do try to keep my promises and so, here we go - have a portion of fluff and happiness ;)
> 
> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)
> 
> Trigger warning for discussion of infertility and miscarriage

_“AHA!”_

A triumphant cry can be heard from the bedroom on the second floor, followed by a suspicious amount of snickering and giggling. Intrigued, I poke my head around the corner and spy into the room, through the slit between door and door frame.

In my now rectangular field of vision, I can see my husband and my brother dancing a ridiculous victory dance. Fred is skipping around the now assembled crib, pumping his fists in the air, his right hand holding a hammer and swinging it in a circular motion around his head, dangerously close to the lamp on the ceiling.

And my husband…

Rich is twerking. He is doing an honest-to-God-twerk.

I close my eyes and pinch myself just to make sure this is real.

When I open my eyes again, Fred is standing behind Rich, moving his right hammer arm in a spanking motion, stopping only just before the hammer hits Rich’s behind.

It is absolutely ludicrous, and I can feel myself turning red in the face from the effort of trying not to burst out loud laughing.

My endeavour, however, is doomed, as Rich turns around and starts parading Fred around the room in tango while singing _“Duudumm Dum Dum Duuu DUM!”_ (the melody reminds my vaguely of “Objection” by Shakira); Fred, in turn, taking the hammer between his teeth (how he manages to do that without dislocating his jaw I do not know) and dramatically bending his back when Rich lowers him into a flourishing finish of the dance.

With snorts of laughter, I burst into the room.

As a result, the hammer falls out of Fred’s mouth, right onto Rich’s foot.

_“Ouch, bloody hell Fred that hurt!”_ Rich cries out, just as Fred indignantly says, _“Soph! What the fuck!”_

_“Oh my God! Did I just witness two grown men twerking and then performing the worst tango in the history of dancing?”_

There are tears in my eyes and I actually start to hiccup.

_“This is the best day of my life.”_

It’s true, there are only a few things that could make this situation even better.

The icing on the cake is yet to come, however, I discover, as Fred tries to free himself from Rich’s tango grasp, entangling his feet even more with Rich’s without meaning to, and falling to the floor in an undignified heap of tangled limbs.

A loud _“CRACK”_ can be heard throughout the room and Fred’s trousers rip from his crotch right up to his back pockets.

He is wearing Mickey Mouse boxers.

My laughter is suffocating me.

Younger brothers are not good for many things; they do, however, have unlimited potential for entertainment.

_“Sophie? Is that you?”_

A very pregnant Anne maneuvers herself into the room, looking in bewilderment at the scene before her.

My husband and her boyfriend, the almighty heroes who have finally managed to assemble the crib (it took them four days to do it! Knowing now how they celebrate their success, I am no longer surprised it took so long), both looking decidedly uncomfortable – Rich is hopping on one foot, clutching his other in his hands and looking extremely sorry for himself, while Fred scrambles up and tries to hide the fact that his ripped trousers are exposing his bum and his love for Disney movies to the world.

To my dying day, I will never forget this moment. 

_“Hi, honey”._ Fred smiles sheepishly at Anne and extents his hands (hammer-free now) towards her.

_“Fred, are your trousers ripped?”_

_“Oh God, Anne, you won’t believe this!”_

I try to tell her the story, I really do, but it’s useless. Every time the image of Rich twerking enters my mind, I have to abort. My stomach starts to hurt from the intensity of my laugh, and a whistling noise accompanies my breath.

It is now my turn to collapse in an undignified heap on the ground. I couldn’t care less.

Fred has pulled Anne into an embrace, resting his hands on her lower back and – after pressing a brief kiss to her lips – tells her proudly _“We have assembled the crib.”_

Even through my haze of tears and hiccups, I can see Anne’s hands wandering lower and giving his buttocks a firm squeeze while answering _“Have you now, my ever so manly boyfriend?”_

_“Fred! Fred, did you – did you notice what Anne just did? She squeezed – squeeeeeezed - your bum! And do you know why - why she can do that? Because -because – because”_ I am rudely interrupted by a wild and determined series of hiccups and snorts _, “because your trousers are r- r- ripped!”_.

Rich decides that apparently feeling sorry for himself is not half as entertaining as laughing at his brother-in-law and joins my laughter. He is not as enthusiastic as I am (which is understandable, as he missed the image of himself twerking), but I will take every ally I can get (even if you brother is in his thirties and you yourself are in your forties – making fun of him and especially forging alliances against him will never get old). Fred looks very much not amused and grabs Anne’s hands.

_“Let’s leave this treacherous mob and take a walk.”_ He critically looks at Anne’s belly and adds _“Okay, maybe just a short walk. And a slow one. To the kitchen, maybe?”_

_“You want to take a walk with your trousers in this state?”_

Anne’s eyebrow says it all.

_“Well, we could stop at our bedroom and I could change. And while we’re at it, we could take some time for other things as well.”_

Fred’s eyebrow has an indecent amount of swagger. As does his bum while he maneuvers a grinning Anne out of the room.

_“Well, I am glad they can laugh again”,_ Rich says, while gingerly sitting down beside me on the floor.

_“Yes, me too.”_ I rub the last tears of laughter from my face and turn to look at the room.

_“You legitimately did a good job with the crib. I honestly thought there was no way we would get that thing assembled.”_

_“To be fair, Fred is an engineer.”_

_“Yes, an engineer for ships. For metal things. Not for a one-hundred-year-old oak crib.”_

Rich grins at me.

_“And yet, we managed.”_

_“That you did”_ , my breathing has finally returned to normal, _“how is your foot?”_

_“Alright, I guess.”_

He kisses me on the cheek, and I lean my head onto his shoulder.

Now that I am not busy laughing at my brother and husband, I have time to take in the room. The walls are painted a pastel shade of green, with a beautiful image of a forest painted on the far side of the room.

Jenny Smith has a real gift for painting (if I had known that sooner, every room in this house would accommodate a wall painted by her) and she has used it well in this soon-to-be-nursery.

A large wardrobe is standing in the corner, its warm brown colour complementing the feeling of being in a clearing in a forest. The nursery is completed by a changing table and two oak cribs. I was not kidding when I said they were a hundred years old – Anne had told me about a section of the loft in her former house (now our house) which had served as a storage room for furniture for generations. Fred and Rich had rummaged in there for a few weeks, before proudly presenting us a pile of wooden planks, declaring that they were certain this was a crib for a child.

It “ _only_ ” took them three weeks to figure out the surprisingly sophisticated mechanism which held the crib together without a single piece of metal, and then four more days to assemble the second one as Rich had discovered a similar pile of wooden planks in another part of the loft.

_“I am sure the twins will love this room.”_

_“It’s still a bit crazy, isn’t it? Twins? And with Fred as a father?”_

_“My thoughts exactly.”_

I take Rich's hand in mine and press a kiss to the back of his hand.

_“Love, are you alright with all of this?”_

Puzzled, I turn to face him.

_“Well, it was my idea, it would be a bit contradictory if I wasn’t fine with it, wouldn’t it?”_

_“That’s not what I am talking about, Soph.”_

His warm and kind eyes search my face and understanding dawns.

When we got married, I was convinced that sooner or later we would start our own family. I had always imagined myself as a mother of at least two kids and when I approached my thirtieth birthday, Rich and I started in earnest to try to conceive a child.

I got pregnant fairly quickly, only to lose the baby after about eight weeks. This happened four more times in the following two years until one doctor finally suggested to have me tested.

I was diagnosed with a rare form of thrombophilia a few weeks afterward. Ever since then, I have been taking medication to counteract the tendency of my blood cells to clot together unnecessarily often. I can get blood clots even in the smallest of blood vessels, which was probably one of the reasons why I lost my babies. Another factor that contributed to that is an anomaly on my X-chromosomes. It was discovered together with my thrombophilia and it doesn’t influence **my** body or health, but strongly influences my fertility.

All of this boils down to the fact that I am able to get pregnant, but I am not able to keep the child alive and healthy within me. My doctor told me that I was almost lucky my babies didn’t make it, because, with this kind of thrombophilia, my pregnancies would sooner or later turn into a life-threatening event for me and the child, with a high probability of a lethal outcome.

It took me years to come to terms with that. To come to terms with the fact that my body was not able to fulfill my biological purpose. To come to terms with the fact that there would be no children bearing the genetic makeup of Rich and me.

That the existence of us would truly end with us.

There would never be a little girl wearing Rich’s smile, coming home to tell us about her life, her friends, her homework. No little boy building sandcastles with me, running excitedly around, and bringing home his first girlfriend when the time came around.

I had always thought that not being able to have children yourself was not such a big deal. We live in modern times, there are other ways of bringing children into this world than through your own womb. Even if a surrogate mother is not an option, then one could always adopt a child. Or apply to be foster parents.

And yet, after I got the diagnosis, I realised how much of a deal this is.

After a few years of indecision, guilt, and sorrow, Rich and I decided that we would not have children at all. It was a long and stony road to gain our equilibrium again and it is still difficult sometimes. Rich got a vasectomy and we have learned that happiness in our lives can co-exist with our grief over this loss. Time is a great healer and, at least, in this case, I have found that to be very true.

Because right now, we are preparing a part of our home for the arrival of my brother’s children and I am loving every moment of it. Thinking about how we got here in the first place astounds me every time.

Fred came to visit us on a rainy Sunday in the middle of July.

Of course, since we have been working together for almost a year now, we are sharing a much bigger portion of our lives than we used to. It was difficult to overlook that things between him and Anne had been strained, to say the least, for more than two months. But I kept quiet as I knew that my brother would not appreciate my meddling in his business without being asked to do so.

Rich didn’t see Fred quite as often as I did and after an uncommonly silent Sunday roast with him, he asked what was wrong. I had told Rich as much as I knew, but it wasn’t that much and so I was actually relieved when he took over the burden of being the curious one.

My brother took his time, chewing on a carrot more vigorously than strictly necessary, and finally – after taking a gulp of orange juice – answered in a low voice _“I am going to be a father.”_

Stunned silence followed his statement.

He avoided looking at either of us. Carefully lowering his glass to the table, he continued _“I honestly don’t know how to explain this, because it has been a mess and still is a mess somehow, but basically it boils down to the fact that Anne Elliot is pregnant with twins because of me and that starting from December, I will be a dad.”_

Another beat of silence.

_“Well, then, I think congratulations are in order.”_

Rich placed his fork and knife with deliberate care on his plate and tried to catch Fred’s eye.

_“I am not so sure about that.”_ Fred emitted a short, bitter laugh.

_“As I said, it is very complicated.”_

And then he proceeded to tell us. How he met Anne almost ten years ago. How she was the love of his life and the reason he went to the Navy (I internally high-fived myself at that point for my deductive skills). How they had started a relationship – as we already knew – in spring and how things had snowballed from then on, escalating in their fight, the pregnancy revelation, and Anne’s subsequent panic attack. That had been about one month ago.

_“Anne suggested that we go to therapy together. And try to make this work. Try to build a family.”_ Fred concluded, taking another gulp of orange juice and staring at his plate as if it held the answer to his current predicament.

_“And? Will you go with her? Is that what you want?”_ I asked gently.

_“I don’t know. I am very confused. I don’t know if I want to be in a relationship with her again. I tried it once this year and it has already backfired spectacularly. I don’t know if I am ready for that, let alone ready for being a father.”_

With a frown like this on his face, Fred strongly resembles **our** father.

_“And then I think of the babies and I wonder if I even have a choice. Anne certainly hasn’t, and I think she is looking forward to being a mother. I feel like it would be cowardly of me to duck out of this. It would be unfair to Anne and unfair to the children.”_

_“Well, you are right that you don’t have a choice about the responsibility you are now facing. These children will be yours, whether you want them or not.”_

Rich had never been a fan of whitewashing uncomfortable truths.

_“It is, however, up to you if you want to be their father while being in a relationship with Anne, or if you want to be their father without being with her. **That** is a choice you can make.”_

Fred left us that day looking pensive, agitated, and tired. I sighed, feeling worried for him and for Anne.

A week later, he texted me he had just had his first therapy session with Anne.

It is now the end of October and Fred and Anne have moved in with us two weeks prior. With Fred officially still living with our parents (even though he spent most of the time at Anne’s _)_ , the only other option for the expecting parents was to go house hunting, as Anne’s cottage was far too small for two adults and two babies. But house hunting proved to be more difficult and nerve-wracking than anyone had expected (I mean, we live in the countryside, for heaven’s sake).

On an evening in September, I contemplated the large house Rich and I were living in, its connection to Anne, and the way it sometimes felt too big for just the two of us. So, following an impulse, I asked Rich how he felt about inviting Fred and Anne to live with us.

_“It could be temporary for the beginning. And if we all like it, then we could make a more permanent arrangement of it.”_

Wonderful man that he is, Rich admitted he had actually considered this option himself already but hadn’t been sure how I would feel about it.

Fred was enthusiastic when I suggested it to him and Anne the following day.

Anne on the other hand was more hesitant.

_“Are you and Rich sure that this is what you want? We will not be good company all the time, with two babies to take care of. You would need to forego a lot of the rooms you are now occupying. I do not want you to feel pressured to offer this option to us, just because I grew up in that house and have talked so much about it.”_ (which was not true, by the way. I was dying to get to know more about Anne’s childhood and her family and especially about her life in this house).

She asked for some time to think about it, and two weeks later – after asking me for the one-hundredth time whether we were really, truly, and honestly fine with it – she agreed.

Given the fact that the two of them didn’t own much furniture (the amount of beds, tables, and cupboards you can fit in a tiny cottage is decidedly limited), Anne told us about the room in the loft, resulting in Fred and Rich going on a treasure hunt every day ever since. Hence, the two cribs.

Compared to before, our house is now buzzing with people. Howard Harville and his wife are constant visitors – Howard helping Fred set up the rooms when Rich can’t (and when Rich can. The three of them bonded quite tightly over the puzzles the ancient furniture posed. And over their victory dances, as I have found out today) and Maggie tentatively talking to Anne about pregnancies and babies (us three also bonded, mostly about the fact that our husbands slash boyfriends are ridiculous human beings).

The Harville daughter, Emily, is a delightful, sweet girl and fills the house with the gurgling laughter of a small child (and sometimes with ear-piercing screams). It makes me look forward to Anne’s due date.

Jenny Smith is also frequently in attendance - painting walls and furniture, and occasionally scolding Fred just because she can (I discovered that these two have a weird auntie-nephew dynamic. Fred turns into a cheeky schoolboy when she is near) _._

All in all, this has been a splendid idea and I am excited and thrilled about the changes yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we are almost through with this fic. Only two more chapters left! :)


	20. Frederick (Part VI)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh I am so excited to upload this - only one more chapter to go and this story is complete! :) I can't tell you enough how happy it makes me to know that there are actual, real people out there following my story and reading the weird and wonderful things coming out of my mind :D In return, I am hoping to contribute a little bit to your happiness today with this chapter :)
> 
> As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)

It is raining again. Grey drizzle falling from grey skies onto grey streets, pouring into grey gutters, falling from grey skies onto grey streets, pouring into – Christ, winter in Britain can be depressing!

Cursing the November chill and the rain which has been pouring down for more than two weeks now (oh how I sometimes miss my missions overseas! Even though truth be told, the weather in Germany or on the Falkland Islands is only marginally better than in Britain), I fumble with my car keys and manage to get inside the driver seat before I am completely soaked.

Why I haven’t thought about taking an umbrella with me I don’t know. Maybe because it is the end of the week and I was barely human this morning when leaving the house, driving to school through the grey mist, over grey streets – bloody hell I am fed up with this greyness. I long to be home.

My drive to work is now about twenty minutes longer than before, given the fact that Rich and Sophie live in a village farther away from our school and I used to live with my parents before, who own a house practically next to the schoolyard.

I find that I like this drive to and from work. It gives me time to think, time to clear my head, and get everything in order that got muddled up during the day.

My mind sorts through the situations I was faced with today, the kids I was interacting with – Malick, accomplishing his first dagger shot in basketball and celebrating with his mates, Becky and Noemi performing their dance routine for the first time in front of the whole class and the teachers, Kitty introducing the kids to Krav Maga. Kitty….Having Kitty with us makes everything so much easier.

Howard and I are now no longer the only two people responsible for the sports project at the school. When it became clear that I would take my duties as a father seriously and might not be as available as I had been before (when Howard and Maggie had gotten Emily, I had started to work more, and Howard had reduced his workload by 10 hours per week in order to help Maggie out), we were urgently looking for a solution to this problem.

Ever since June, we had been in constant communication with the ministry of education, and finally – after what seemed like an eternity of incredibly long-winded e-mails and far too many phone calls – the ministry granted us the funds needed to renew the contract for the project, this time for the duration of three years. Should our results still be as satisfactory and promising as they were right now, the project would be turned into a fixture at our school and then replicated in several other schools across the country.

Howard and I gathered that – while we were at it anyway – we might negotiate with the ministry to free some more funds in order to employ a third person, to compensate for the fact that both of us now had family obligations (or soon would have). Very grudgingly and only because Rich managed – through a connection with his boss – to present a perfect candidate, they agreed.

And now, Catherine – or Kitty - Bennet (a sister-in-law of Rich’s boss) was employed to take over for Anne (she had started her maternity leave four weeks ago) and, in addition, was granted more working hours to help us with the project.

So far, Kitty has not disappointed and Howard and I are very much looking forward to working with her for the coming year at our school.

It is funny how I already refer to the school as “our” school. I would have never dreamed that one day, I would be working with children, doing all kinds of different sports, and actually being interested in pedagogy, trauma-informed practice, didactics, and overall, of course, inclusivity. My work in the Navy seems to have taken place in another life, with a completely different Frederick Wentworth.

The last year has changed me profoundly.

Anne has changed me - our turbulent history ever since we met again turning my world upside down and then back again. For a long time I felt out of place and out of balance, always a bit (or rather, a lot) unstable. Right now, I feel like I have finally reached a point where I have adjusted to this change, at least a little. I am a man of routine, discipline, and order (hence, the Navy. Or maybe the Navy did that to me – it is a kind of chicken and egg situation) and the last year has been anything but orderly and filled with a steady routine.

Anne’s idea to go to therapy together has been our salvation (even though, let me tell you, therapy lessons are NOT a walk in the park. Even now, after we have been to more than fifteen of these sessions together, I still need to gather my courage before we start it. And both of us regularly need a day or two to think about the outcome of the session, before we are able to communicate like normal human beings again).

Along the way, we both realised how much pain we had caused each other. How deeply scarred we were because of our engagement and how many barriers we had built to protect us from such a devastating thing happening again.

And at the same time, we have discovered that we both love each other very much (and we have actually said it to each other, without shouting or feeling under pressure or being scared of immediately being rejected again. God, that was an awkward session. Awkward because we were both embarrassed to say it out loud with a third person present. But then, also incredibly joyous when actually hearing the words from the other person. Watching Anne fighting to form the words, stammering herself through the most heartfelt declaration of love I have ever heard – my very manly knees might have gotten uncommonly weak there for a moment).

All in all, the chaos that had governed my life ever since I left the Navy has slowly started to resolve itself and I am starting to establish more and more routines, which satisfies me immensely. I am finding my balance again and I can’t even begin to tell you how good that feels.

Every other morning, Rich and I jog our round through the forest and the village. Jogging or not, breakfast usually happens with all four of us present. It is often a silent, comfortable breakfast – Rich reading his newspapers, Sophie preparing her food for the day (my sister is incredibly food-fixated. You wouldn’t believe the amount of food she is capable of devouring throughout a day), Anne drinking her camomile tea and stealing the pages of the newspaper Rich has already read. And of course, me, munching on my toast and trying to sort through the day ahead of me.

Howard and I try to work out together at least once a week. Every other weekend, Anne and I visit my parents (they are overjoyed to soon be grandparents. Sometimes I feel like they would adopt Anne if they could – they pamper and spoil her as much as they can. Seeing Anne’s radiant smile at this, I am very proud at my parents' ability to make someone as shy as Anne comfortable with their (let's face it) sometimes overbearing presence).

Our evenings at home vary, depending on the availability of each resident and each person’s capacity for more human company.

Today, Sophie and Rich are out on a date night and Anne has promised me to cook dinner (that is one of the things I have discovered about Anne and which I hadn’t known before– she is an excellent cook if she wants to be. She can, however, also be extremely lazy and eat junk food for a seemingly endless period of time) and I am very much looking forward to coming home.

_“Love, I’m home!”_

I don’t know whether she has heard me because she is listening to the score of Harry Potter again – and at full volume, too (another thing I learned about her - her still existing love for Harry Potter rivals my love for Disney movies. Yeah I know, I know –you think a former Navy captain loving Disney movies is kind of unrealistic, but have you ever seen Tangled? No? Go and watch it. No, seriously, do it).

I make a quick detour to the bathroom to get rid of my wet clothes and blow dry my hair. Feeling more like myself again in a pair of sweatpants and a fresh T-shirt, I enter the kitchen.

_“Oh, hello.”_

Even now, after being with her for almost five months, my heart still stops sometimes or starts that happy and chaotic beat just at the sound of Anne’s voice (if you could see her, you’d know what I mean. There is no way I could feel otherwise).

_“Hmm, this smells delicious.”_

Hugging her from behind, placing my hand on her – frankly speaking- ginormous belly, and burying my head in her neck (Anne cut her hair short about a month ago. It is now incredibly curly and presents even more of an opportunity to lose myself in it. It **does** things to me.) – all of this gives me a feeling of belonging and being at home like I have scarcely felt before in my life. And it helps me to ignore the one part in me that is still freaking out about the fact that I am going to be a father. As in a real-life-nappy-changing-sleep-losing-responsibility-bearing-father.

_“How are the three of you?”_

_“Oh, we are splendid.”_

There is laughter in her voice as she says this. She turns around to give me a kiss and then passes me a spoon to taste the sauce.

_“Your sons have managed to keep me awake almost the entire night, so we decided together that a nap this afternoon would be appropriate. After that, they saw it fit to convert my bladder into a trampoline and enjoyed it immensely to send their mother running for the bathroom every five minutes.”_

I manage to successfully cover up the dizzy feeling Anne’s words cause in my head - and on my face probably, as far as that is possible - ( _“your sons”!_ ) by throwing the spoon with too much force into the sink.

_“They deserve a stern talking to for that!”_

_“They really do. But maybe we could eat before? I am ravenous.”_

Being pregnant with twins, Anne can wolf down almost as much food as Sophie during one day (almost as much. But not quite).

Dinner is a relaxed and quiet affair. I tell Anne about the day at school. How Becky and Noemi have loudly exclaimed that they have never missed anyone as much as they now miss Anne _(_ there are almost tears in her eyes as she hears this. It makes my heart clench knowing that she did not expect to be missed). How Howard has managed to embarrass himself in front of a whole class by putting his trousers on the wrong way around. How Jenny and Sophie keep meeting and discussing things, only to mysteriously clamp their mouths shut when I start approaching them.

Anne tells me that she called her sister Mary today.

Deciding if - and how - to tell her family about me, our relationship and the twins was a difficult thing. I wanted to support Anne as best as I could, but somehow only the thought of talking to her family about any of this nearly always almost got her a panic attack (the attacks have lessened considerably ever since we started therapy. Anne doesn’t hide them from me anymore and the therapist has taught me how to help Anne when one comes around and what medication she can take even though she is pregnant. The last panic attack was three weeks ago and the time intervals between them are growing steadily larger).

In the end, Anne decided to only tell Mary and see what happens. That was four weeks ago.

But apparently, nothing much happened. Mary didn’t tell her father or her sister about it.

_“I wonder whether she has actually taken me seriously when I told her about you and our babies,”_ Anne muses while pouring herself another glass of water, _“I feel like I might as well have talked to her dog instead of her regarding the response I got. Her dog might even have been enthusiastic about it.”_

I wonder what the correct response to this is. Thinking back to our therapy sessions, I settle for honesty.

_“I am still not sure how to feel about your family. Or what I can offer you to support you with regards to them.”_

Taking her hand, I continue _“You know that nothing they will say or do can provoke me to leave you? And that I will do anything in my power to protect you from them if you feel that is necessary?”_

Again, there are tears in her eyes. It makes me uncomfortable and a little uncertain. She squeezes my hand, looks down at the table, and then raises her gaze again to meet mine.

_“Marry me, Fred.”_

What?

I must have misheard that.

_“What?”_

Now it’s her turn to look a little uncomfortable. But she soldiers on, disregarding her shaking hands (her pulse is throbbing beneath my fingers) and the red dots that have appeared on her cheeks.

_“Well, I have been thinking a lot lately. And just now, when you said this about my family, I felt like I needed to tell you. The experience of the last ten years has taught me that I won’t find anyone who will ever come close to what you mean to me.”_

I can feel my pulse speed up.

She actually meant what she said.

Anne Elliot has actually proposed **marriage** to me and she meant it.

_“The experience of the last ten years has also taught me that I will never listen to my family again and that being with you is the best thing that has happened to me. I love you,”_ and here her eyes shine, looking at me with such an intensity that I am spellbound (only my thumb seems to have retained a modicum of sense and gently traces her knuckles), _“and I want to be with you. For my entire life. No one will change that, I promise you. And I would like to promise that to you more officially.”_

I am dumbstruck.

And, as it has been our tradition for the past months, an awkward silence follows. After a few uncomfortable minutes (or seconds?) where I can just gape at Anne, she shyly asks _“Well? Don’t you have anything to say?”_

Oh God, I have a million things to say.

Like how I have vowed to never again ask her to marry me because I didn’t want to put her into the same position as last time with respect to her family. Or how – contrary to that statement - marrying her is exactly what I want _(“And,”_ my practical side adds _, “how marrying her would relieve us of a mountain of paperwork once the twins are born. If you are married before the birth, there is no reason for proving the fatherhood and stuff like that”)._

_“Anne – are you – is this –“_ , I clear my throat, take her hand firmly in mine, and - _“is this truly what you want? Are you sure about this?”_

_“I can get down on one knee if that would reassure you.”_

I can feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as she makes to rise, smirking at me, and then – very carefully, very wobbly, - kneels down in front of me.

_“Frederick Wentworth, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”_

_“Well, now that you are on one knee, how can I refuse you? I knew that 'boyfriend' was a much too juvenile term for me in the long run!”_

She is beaming at me. Then she sheepishly looks down at herself.

_“Well, Mr. Wentworth, it seems like your first act as a fiancé will be to get your future wife out of this position. Because if you don’t then I will have to roll onto my side and rob myself to the couch. And no one wants to see that undignified display.”_

I gladly obey her wish, because who I am to argue with my future wife.

_(WIFE!!!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all in for turning gender stereotypes upside down (in case you hadn't noticed yet ;)) and I think women proposing to their partners are awesome :) And why should only men be privy to the nerve-wracking fear of being rejected by the person you love the most? :P


	21. Lady Russell (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is IT :) The final chapter of this fic - it actually makes me a little sad to know I will be leaving my Anne and Fred after this, at least for now. But it also motivates me to try and work on some of the other things floating around in my mind. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, for taking the time to comment, for motivating me to keep uploading! This has been a fun journey for me and I hope this last chapter finds all of you well and healthy in these crazy times. Take care of yourself - mentally, emotionally, and physically and be kind to yourself ;) 
> 
> And now, one last time (you can all say it with me, I know you have read it often enough): As always - I do not own these characters or the storyline; all credit belongs to the fabulous Jane Austen, copyright infringement not intended. I am not writing for profit and all mistakes are mine (not beta read) :)

The newspaper makes a rustling noise as I turn to the next page, reaching for my mug of coffee with my other hand. As usual, it is difficult to not drown in the negativity of it all – a father killing his wife and children in a fury and regretting it bitterly afterward, the war in Syria and Afghanistan still raging on with no end in sight (only mentioning two of the many battlefields on this planet), the local politics a disaster and climate change still sharply on the rise, etcetera, etcetera – it is depressing.

A deep and defeated sigh escapes me and I decide to concentrate on my coffee and let the news be. The dark January night is about to end and a weak winter sun fights its way through the clouds, sending a frail ray of sunshine through my window.

Maria, my housekeeper, gently knocks on the door. She brings me my breakfast and hands me the post of today.

_“Thank you, Maria. How are you today? How is your son?”_

Maria answers that all is well and her son – thank God – has recovered from his motorcycle accident. I am glad to hear that, he is a wonderful if sometimes a little overconfident young man and Maria deserves to be his mother for more than just twenty-three years. No child should die before their parents.

My coffee suddenly tastes more bitter than normally. My eyes sting.

_No child should die before their parent._

Even now, even after more than twenty years, it sometimes takes me by surprise how much I still grieve the death of my best friend. It seems that some things never truly heal. You carry them with you, sometimes more easily, and then sometimes their weight comes crashing down on you with full force.

As always when I think of Alice Elliot, my thoughts turn to my goddaughter Anne. It is not a happy thought, things between Anne and me have been strained for the past years. Strained is putting it mildly.

The shy, sweet girl who had once been my goddaughter had disappeared more than a decade ago. Anne had never been an extrovert or prone to display her feelings very openly. However, if she was comfortable enough, she could laugh and be merry, talk excitedly about the things that interested her, and beautifully play the piano. After Alice’s death, I took it upon myself to look after her and pay her as much attention as I could.

That insufferable man calling himself her father certainly did not notice how Anne started to withdraw more and more after the death of her mother, grieving silently, trying not to bother anyone with her emotions. Those two ignorant and equally insufferable sisters did nothing to help her case.

When she decided to start working in her father’s company (more out of a sense of duty and a lack of alternatives than because it was her wish to do so), my concern for her well-being only increased.

Imagine my relief when Anne one summer all of a sudden started to smile more. Talk more. Generally, be more open. There was a spring in her step, her eyes sparkled and sometimes she even showed signs of being excited. I was relieved and curious at the same time – what could have inspired this kind of change?

I soon discovered what, or rather, **who** was responsible for her changed behaviour. A man named Frederick Wentworth had just started an internship at her father’s company and apparently, he had fallen for Anne. She told me so after a few weeks, and could hardly contain her smile while telling me about him.

I was torn.

Of course, I wanted Anne to be happy! And I wanted her to find a partner one day if that was what she wished for. But Anne was so very young. And scarred from the death of her mother and the neglect the rest of her family showed her. Her family was and is difficult to deal with and only someone truly special would pass the harsh judgement of her father, I knew that for sure. I didn’t want Anne to have this confrontation. Until then, I had tried to shield her from her father’s judgmental attitude and self-absorbed way as much as possible. Bringing a boyfriend or a partner into our carefully established power equilibrium could ruin everything and Anne would – yet again – be subject to the scorn and wrath of her family.

I was determined to protect her from that. Anne was only twenty-one, she still had so much of her life in front of her and one day, there would be a man who would catch her eye and make her smile radiant again. However, at this point in her life – with her new job finally giving her a modicum of independence – a boyfriend would shatter all of this.

When Anne told me that Frederick had asked her to marry him and that she had agreed, I was livid (he had had the audacity to ask for marriage after knowing her only for two months. TWO MONTHS, I ask you!). For weeks and weeks, I talked to Anne - I pleaded with her, patiently and then impatiently, imprinted on her the consequences of this union with regards to her family and her job and the utter lack of anything this Mr. Wentworth could offer her in return for such a large sacrifice.

Finally, after months, Anne relented.

She broke the engagement and focused on her job at the company. The sparkle in her eyes vanished, her smile disappeared and there was no longer a spring in her step.

The only thing giving Anne happiness during that time was the charity work she could engage in due to her job at the company. I could see how much that meant to Anne and I wholly supported her decision to become a social worker and finally find a place in this world that actually fit her.

Not that I would still be part of the world of hers.

I sometimes find it hard to believe how Anne and I have such different perspectives on my influence on her life. It is a difficult topic for me, because everything I did for Anne, I did from a place of heart and because I care for her deeply. Having a partner and children myself was never part of my life plan, but Anne became my godchild, she lost her mother and so I stepped up to the challenge and tried my very best to be as much of a mother as it was possible under the circumstances.

The coffee starts to taste even more bitter if that is possible.

A few years ago, Anne told me in no uncertain terms how thoroughly she thought I had failed in that endeavour. How she considered me to be a boundary-disrespecting and overbearing godmother and how I was – in that respect – no different from her father and sisters. How she wanted to be treated like an adult (insinuating that I had, in fact, neglected to do so for a long time) and how my advice on her life – regardless of the topic – was not welcome anymore, unless I would manage to respect her the way she deserved.

She had not told me this in person but sent a letter instead. After listing all my failures and repeating more often than strictly necessary that I was supposed to keep my distance, she concluded the letter saying that I was welcome to come back into her life if I was ready to accept the rules she had laid out for our future contact.

I haven’t seen Anne ever since that letter arrived at my home.

It has given me many restless nights, I have dissected its content from the beginning to the end, staring at it from every possible angle, never coming to a satisfying conclusion. I can’t even begin to describe the hurt I felt and still feel at this rejection, at this attack on my way of parenting (if you want to call it that), at her refusal to acknowledge how much I have done for her, how much love and devotion I freely and willingly gave to her, how much I sacrificed to be there for her. Losing the daughter of my best friend in such a way, after losing my best friend - this has altered me, has tired me out, and makes me feel regret and sadness about how things are between us.

Of course, I thought about contacting her. I still think about it. But you see, I have lost my footing with Anne. She has very clearly said that our relationship the way it was is not something she desires. However, I don’t know how to interact with her in any other way. And when reading her letter, I lost my courage to ask her how she would like us to interact.

Time passed.

And as is the case with some things in life, if you don’t react immediately, it becomes increasingly difficult to react at all. My hurt, my shame (because of course I tried to take her point of view and seeing some things from her perspective like my advice on her engagement made me feel shame in retrospect. I am not accustomed to feeling shame. Let me tell you, it is a wholly unpleasant feeling), my anger and my fear of making even more mistakes than I apparently had made already – all of this piled up like an invincible mountain between me and my courage to contact Anne. And so I didn’t contact her.

At least not in person.

Because then I met William Elliot and I saw a light at the end of the tunnel (and – in hindsight – me using this metaphor now, I should’ve known it wouldn’t end well. Light at the end of a tunnel can be either the end of the tunnel or a train, rushing mercilessly towards you).

William is a very distant nephew of mine and somehow, we met at a tea party in town and discovered that we were related. William told me about his real estate company, and the school project he was currently sponsoring.

My ears pricked up because the name of the school was exactly the same as the one Anne was working in. Her sister Mary mentioned the name in one of our rare encounters at an Elliot family celebration.

The news that William was regularly at the school and did even have contact with Anne as she was supporting the two men carrying out the project (a former football star player and a retired Navy captain. A bit of an odd combination if you ask me, but the ministry hopefully knew what they were doing, employing them for this job). I subtly asked him questions about Anne, dropped at some point all pretense, and told him that I would be very happy if he could find out more about Anne for me. And that maybe, just maybe, he might be the one Anne was looking for (the dull look in Anne’s eyes which appeared after her broken engagement has haunted me for a long time and William is a lovely guy. I thought it couldn’t hurt to hint that she might be happy to have a partner; I was very eager to right the wrong I had apparently done). 

Imagine my astonishment and surprise when William came to me a few weeks later and told me that a) he had met a lovely, beautiful woman he was falling head over heels in love with, b) that her name was NOT Anne Elliot, but instead Safia Rahman, and c) Anne had gotten a massive panic attack when he mentioned that I had told him she might be looking for a partner and he might be it.

Idiot.

Of course, I never thought he would actually tell her that (and of course I know I should not have told him that in the first place. But I was desperate. William was my only chance to get to know more about Anne again and I was just trying to make a connection between the two to make amends for all my previous mistakes. You know, just introduce them to each other, let them think about the possibility).

After that, I met William less and less and I was not sorry about it. I am, however, sad about losing this connection to Anne. And about knowing that – even though I meant to do good – I have failed Anne yet again.

Well, it is no use pondering about these things. This day awaits me and so I finish my coffee, the liquid still dark and bitter on my tongue. The sun has risen completely now and against the odds, it actually promises to be a beautiful winter day. I decide to take a walk after breakfast.

Maria has brought me three letters and a postcard. I open the first letter – even from the envelope I could guess that an invoice awaits me. It’s my yearly gas bill – I make a mental note to bypass the bank on my walk later. Even though I occasionally make use of the internet and settle my bills online, I do prefer to go to my bank and do it there.

The second envelope contains a letter from a friend of mine. She spends every winter in Nice and ever since we have been teens, we keep a regular correspondence by letter. Of course, we call each other now and then, but we’re both a bit traditional, and writing these letters has become more important the older we get. Writing someone an actual hand-written letter expresses so much more consideration and fondness for this person than an e-mail or phone call ever can, and so I decide to save her letter for later when I am at leisure to indulge in her adventures in Nice.

The third envelope is intriguing. It is slightly larger than the first two, with thick white paper. My address is written in front in familiar handwriting and when registering this, my hands start to shake.

The room is spinning, only slightly, but still enough to make it difficult for me to open the envelope.

Two cards and a letter fall onto my table; the letter written on the same thick white paper as the envelope. I realize that my heart is pounding wildly and I am actually holding my breath. Making a conscious effort to release it, I stretch my fingers to grasp the first of the two cards.

_“We said YES”_ is written in a simple font on top of the card. Below it, there is a picture and a date: _“12/20/2019”._ Five days before Christmas day. I register this only at the periphery of my brain because my eyes are glued to the picture.

Anne looks **radiant**.

Her hair is shorter than before, curly and framing her face. She holds a bouquet of amaryllis, white roses, and evergreens, matching her pastel pink dress. A wedding ring glints on her left hand, which is intertwined with the left hand of her husband. He is hugging her from behind, equally radiant and looking sharp in his tuxedo.

Fredrick Wentworth surely has changed. The person I got to know a decade ago was a boy, compared to this man standing behind Anne, looking at her like she is the only important thing in the world.

And Anne is pregnant. Not only-three-weeks-into-my-pregnancy pregnant but a-week-before-my-due-day pregnant.

I have to laugh when I take a look at the next card.

_“Born on 12/27/2019 – Father Christmas was late”_. I was right with my guess about the due date. Two adorable little human beings are portrayed on this card. No wonder Anne looks so heavily pregnant in the wedding picture - with a belly like that it would have been no surprise if she would not have been able to walk anymore at the time of the wedding.

_“Benjamin and Daniel Wentworth rudely awoke their mother at 2 am in the morning and fought their way into the world at 4.40 pm. Both are healthy and we are proud to proclaim that the combined weight of our children is enough to rival an entire Dutch cheese (Benjamin: 6.2 lbs, Daniel: 6.9 lbs). Aligning both of them in a line, their combined size is almost as much as their mother's right leg (Benjamin: 50 cm, Daniel: 47 cm). Their parents are ecstatically happy and the mother is well.”_

I stare at the two pictures. There is so much happiness in them, in the words written on the cards, in the smile of Anne and of Frederick Wentworth. And so much life in these children.

Only when a tear drops down onto Benjamin and Daniel, I realize I have started crying. I hastily wipe away the tears and clumsily reach for the last thing still halfway inside the envelope.

It is a letter. From Anne.

_“Dear Hester,_

_I have started this letter now for the fifth time and this time I will finish it, no matter how inelegant I may sound. As you can see, my life has changed tremendously during the last months. I myself can sometimes scarcely comprehend how this happened and how I am allowed to be so happy and live the life I have always wanted to live._

_Things have been complicated between the two of us for the last years, I know that. I would like to change this. Ever since Fred came back into my life, I have been thinking a lot about you and I would like to have you back in my life. Back in our life, to be precise, because Fred and the children are now a part of me._

_I think it would do all of us some good if we managed to forgive each other our mistakes from the past and move on together. My children need another grandmother and there is no one I would rather ask for this than you. Will you accept it?_

_Please come over and visit us. I would be very happy to see you again._

_Love,_

_Anne”_

In another handwriting, a post scriptum was added:

_“Anne tells me your housekeeper makes excellent scones. We drink tea at 4 in the afternoon. Don’t be late._

_F. Wentworth”_

Well, Mr. Wentworth. I am looking forward to meeting the man who has brought back the sparkle into Anne’s eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaaa :) 
> 
> One last thing I want to mention - if you want to know what my soundtrack to this fic is, check out the song "Lullabies" by Yuna. It has been my steady companion while writing this.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not from the UK and had to research many things about e.g. the social service system. I hope I am doing the reality justice – if you happen to notice grave mistakes, please feel free to let me know. If it is only about minor details – humor me and go with it for the sake of the story :)


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